


Dearest William

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Angst and Humor, Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, Book 2: Throne of Jade, Dragons Plague, Epistolary, Gifts, M/M, My two main genres mixed into one fic, Starts like crack becomes tragedy, William Laurence is Perpetually Baffled and Aggrieved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Napoleon sends a letter to the upstart sea-captain who stole his dragon, Laurence sends one back, and a correspondence begins under the uneasy eye of the admiralty. ------When Laurence had admitted the matter to Granby his lieutenant exclaimed, “God, does Boney want you drawn and quartered as a traitor?” which seems perfectly possible.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Napoleon can't write in English at this point, so let's just assume - as we always do - that all writing takes place in French, which Laurence *can* canonically speak. Yes? Yes.

“Mail for you, Sir.”

Setting aside a Latin dictionary with some relief, Laurence glances at the runner who has come to a halt by his side. “Levitas brought the mail yesterday,” he notes, and for good measure nudges the dictionary further away; Temeraire is sadly fond of Latin treatises, and Laurence is beginning to lament his old inattention in the schoolroom.

“Aye, Sir.” The boy shrugs, apparently unconcerned.

A bit exasperated, Laurence accepts the letter. The boy runs off, which leaves Laurence fingering the parchment with confusion.

It is a fine parchment – very fine; he does not recognize immediately the smudged seal on the letter, though it looks disconcertingly familiar. He breaks it open and glances first at the name at the bottom of the page.

He looks again.

Laurence reads through the entire letter once. He reads it again. Then he carefully, very carefully, folds the parchment in half and walks to Admiral Lenton's office.

“Good god,” Lenton says when he arrives. “ - Why is Bonaparte sending you _mail?”_

“I cannot say, Sir,” Laurence says helplessly.

The letter is in French. Bonaparte writes in a tight, slanted scrawl, but the words are perfectly discernible. They are not all complimentary.

“I do not think he likes you,” Lenton says dryly after looking over the letter. “ - Well, it looks like he took the loss of his dragon a bit personally. There is nothing to be done about it; I think he is just ranting, at least. There are no threats here, and nothing of tactical significance.” He hands back the letter. “Though if you can provoke some ongoing communication through your reply I suppose that would not be a bad thing.”

Laurence startles. “My reply, Sir?”

“When the Emperor of France writes you don't ignore it – even if we _would_ like to see him hang.” This last part is half-muttered. “Pass it to me when you're finished. I'll look it over and hand it to... one of our foreign ministers, I suppose, someone with diplomatic status.” Here the admiral frowns. “However did that Corsican get the thing over here, anyway?”

“A runner gave it to me, Sir. He did not say.”

“Well, find out.” Lenton waves him away, so Laurence takes that as a dismissal.

He retreats to his own quarters to look over the letter. It's a strange sensation to look down and imagine the Emperor of France – the man who has instigated this entire war – sitting down at a desk, perhaps not unlike the very one Laurence is using, and penning a message about Temeraire and the _Amiti_ _é_ _._ Surely, he thinks, a head of state has more important matters to think about?

And surely any politician should be a bit more careful in his words:

 

 

 

> To Captain William Laurence, late of the HMS Reliant:
> 
> Your country is not so courteous, and news of the Amitié's capture has only reached us lately; news of the dragon you call Temeraire would perhaps have reached us not at all, if not for direct investigations into his welfare.
> 
> Reports have been few, but your change of posting has said quite enough. Among France, the navy are the most quarrelsome of our men - I was not impressed to hear of the dragon's choice, influenced though it might have been. I do hope you do credit to the reputation of Britain's forces at sea, such as it is.
> 
> I wonder what has prompted you to accept this change – if you fully understand just what you have done by harnessing Temeraire with such brutal methods as you must have employed. I wonder moreso why you would mock my men by naming my intended companion with a French title. I hope that I might meet your one day, Captain, and be able to judge your merits myself. Until then I will ask that you give my well-wishes to Temeraire, who is, after all, not to be blamed for where he hatched.
> 
> Respectfully,
> 
> Napoleon I Bonaparte
> 
> Emperor of France
> 
>  

The supreme arrogance of the letter is apparent even in the signature – _Napoleon I,_ as though the man is proclaiming himself a single dynasty with no children yet expected. Laurence shakes his head and smooths the letter against his desk. He takes out a quill and ink.

 

 

 

> Addressing Napoleon Bonaparte, Current Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Defender of the Rhine:
> 
> I hope that you are faring Well, Your Majesty. We too have had news of the war, and I am sure your recent loss at Cadiz had caused some Grief among the French navy.
> 
> I cannot personally comment on Temeraire's choice, but I regret to hear that French seamen have not yet reached the discipline held by the English. As you have noted, I am no longer an officer of His Majesty's Navy, but I may certainly pass on concerns to the Admiralty's Board if you should like to prevail upon our officers for advice in managing your fleet.
> 
> With all respect to your Majesty, I must respectfully protest the notion that Temeraire's harnessing was in any way Brutal; if you have harbored Concerns, you may be assured that the process was amiable for all involved, and while I do not presume to speak for him I take Temeraire's companionship as a great Honor. This being said, I intended no mockery with his name. I called him after an excellent French vessel I saw during my youth, the sight of which inspired me to join the navy. Your Nation always gives our men good cause to join His Majesty's forces.
> 
> If you meet the maker of that fine ship, I would ask you to thank him for me. Without cause to go to Sea I may never have met Temeraire.
> 
> Respectfully Yours,etc.,
> 
> Captain William Laurence

* * *

 

“You could have tried to be a bit less polite,” Lenton says sourly. He turns over the letter. “But, no, I suppose that is how you talk; at any rate the ambassador will be pleased. They enjoy that sort of cringing back-talk, whatever the circumstances.” When Laurence stiffens, the Admiral sighs and adds, “Do not huff, Captain; I mean only that it galls me to offer that pretender any pretense of civility, much less a letter filled with 'Your Majesties'.” He tosses down the letter in disgust.

By Laurence's standards the message was barely civil; indeed the barest reading can understand the contempt under his words. But he says only, “Yes, Sir,” and waits.

Finally Lenton waves him away. “You are requested for training – and stop being quite so interesting, if you please,” he says.

“Sir, I shall certainly try.”

* * *

 

The land around Dover splits into furrowed fields under their view. It seems possible to reach down and peel up the discolored land, plucking up this farm by the edge of a distant street, tugging away that one by the silver line of a stream. Laurence leans over Temeraire's side and watches the earth become small and distant beneath them.

“We do not fly enough, Laurence,” Temeraire says. “Not alone.”

“There is a war, my dear.” But of course Temeraire is right.

They circle back to the covert with some reluctance; Little and Sutton were dispatched to the coast with Obversaria's formation the night before, but there will be drills in the evening. As they approach Temeraire straightens his neck and leans forward with interest.

“Laurence,” he says. “Are we going to start eating horses? I thought you said they were unpleasant to chew.”

Four horses stand at the front of the covert snorting and stamping their feet in fear. Perplexed, Laurence responds, “I do not claim to know what that is about – no one of any sense would send horses so near to a group of dragons.” It is impressive that the poor creatures have not bolted already.

“If someone has been foolish, surely we _may_ eat the horses?”

“No, I think not; but let us see what is happening.”

Indeed, they are being waved some distance away by two ensigns. Temeraire sees the gesture and lands neatly enough, though the air turned by his descent nearly knocks everyone nearby off their feet. “Has something happened?” Laurence asks; even here, over an eighth of a mile and downwind from the horses, it is plain that they are beautifully arrayed. No usual messengers, then.

“Yes, Sir,” says one of the ensigns. “ - He delivered something for you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Finally he notices the crate next to the horses. Laurence does not understand how he failed to note it before – the box is preposterously large. An empty cart rests behind the beasts, newly relieved of some burden, and the horses' driver slowly begins to walk them away.

“Is it a gift?” Temeraire asks.

“Not unless one of my navy correspondents saw fit to send me a jollyboat by mail,” says Laurence dubiously. “I cannot imagine what it could be. Come with me, Temeraire, I daresay I will not be able to move it myself.”

By the time they walk over a few spectators have stopped to stare, and Laurence sees, with a rising sense of a dread, that an envelope lies neatly pinned to the top of the box. It bears a familiar seal.

 _To Capt. William Laurence,_ it says.

He opens it. Looks over the contents. Then, with his mouth tightened to a thin line, Laurence turns until he spots a midshipmen standing nearby and pretending not to watch. “You, help me with this lid.”

The man jumps guiltily and does.

They peel away one of the sides and then pull back a pile of packing-cloths. In the crate are four immense gold rings – just gold plated, hopefully – which explains the difficulty of the horses. Laurence frowns uneasily.

“What are those?” Temeraire asks. He leans down to peer as best he can over Laurence's shoulder; his great girth offers them some implicit privacy from the other aviators.

“They would seem to be for you,” Laurence says. Reaching in, he tries to lift one of the golden rings and fails utterly; nearly a dozen men could stand inside the center. “See, there is a clasp of sorts here. I believe it is meant to go above your feet.” He moves aside.

“Oh! How very kind.” Temeraire reaches down to pick one up with great delicacy. Laurence pauses for a moment to watch him twist and turn the contraption. Does Bonaparte mean to entice Temeraire with blatant bribery?

 

 

 

> To William Laurence -
> 
> I am told you are well. I have made inquiries; there were several vessels among the Temeraire line, but the ship of that name was taken by us some years back. The navy Admiral with whom I spoke lamented its loss. I would guess he agrees with your assessment of its qualities. The British may have a reputation for good seamen, captain, but it is no fault of ours if your people should choose to spend half their days on the water. French shipbuilding still reigns supreme.
> 
> Despite the superiority of our officers, I will agree that perhaps I should not be quick to judge; but if you believe you and Temeraire are suited, Captain, I would be well-interested in your reasoning.
> 
> These anklets were made with a heavy-weight dragon in mind; you may consider them a congratulations for your promotion, if you like. Certainly I am interested to see what it produces.
> 
> Respectfully, N.
> 
>  

Bonaparte suspects that Temeraire does not even want him, Laurence concludes; the implication is insulting but not threatening. He puts the letter into his coat-pocket.

The runner who gave him the first letter only two weeks before had confessed that he had received it from a boy in Dover; from there Laurence had been led on a merry chase all the way to Portsmouth. He does not suspect that following the man in the coach will prove to be any more productive, so instead he departs Temeraire with a few words and goes again to Admiral Lenton.

Lenton surveys the letter this time with exasperation. “Questions, questions – what, is he lonely?” He shakes out the letter in disgust. “Well, write back, if you like; the foreign office spent a week exclaiming over your last message. Though how he answered so quick, I daren't say...”

Use of his quickest couriers, no doubt, though why Laurence merits the privilege he cannot guess. He excuses himself with a frown and retreats again to his study.

He takes awhile to begin writing. The letter is less menacing now, but more difficult to conceptualize in form. He hardly knows where to begin.

 

 

 

> Addressing Napoleon Bonaparte, Current Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Defender of the Rhine:
> 
> I must Confess to being surprised at your missive, Your Majesty, and give compliments to your continuing health, which continues despite England's best efforts.
> 
> I feel that I must protest several points of your last letter. It is an easy truism to say that French ships are superior when you have never set foot on the deck of an English ship; nevertheless our small vessels seem to manage quite well when Outnumbered. Of course any good sailor uses what he has, and we do not spurn French vessels when they come into our holding; my acquaintance Captain Gibbs has come into command of the Amitié, so recently captured, and commends its build.
> 
> You have written also of Temeraire, and I do understand your natural and commendable Concern for his condition. But, Your Majesty, I will not here provide a list of Qualifications or any sort of Resume proclaiming my worth; not only because it is not owed, but because in this regard I must answer only to Temeraire himself. If you are indeed concerned for his safety and Happiness you must acknowledge also his Autonomy. I have provided him with the chance for other captains, your Royal self included, and he has refused to alter his course. In such a case where a pair are brought together for life one must think of compatibility as well as fitness for duty, and I will not insult Temeraire by insistence.
> 
> Respectfully Yours,etc.,
> 
> Captain William Laurence

 

Laurence will have to write Captain Gibbs and tell him of this name-usage; the captain will likely be delighted if Laurence can bring himself to explain the circumstances of the exchange in any coherent fashion. So, perhaps not; he sighs.

This time when he waits in Lenton's office the admiral looks at him suspiciously. “Offered a choice,” he says at last. “That Temeraire could even go to Bonaparte... A very nice lie. It will stick in his craw, to be sure.”

Laurence says nothing.

Lenton clears his throat pointedly. “Well? Will you stand there all day, Captain?”

* * *

 

Lily's formation flies over the eastern portion of the Channel in slow patterns the next week. Temeraire's flying has improved greatly since his time at Loch Laggan covert, his corners efficient and sharp. Granby speaks to Laurence aloft:

“So, I am told you have been getting letters from old Boney?”

Laurence groans softly. Granby grins. “Wherever did you learn that?” Laurence despairs. “I did not think Lenton the type to gossip.” Certainly not with subordinates, even in the Corps -

“Oh, the runners deduced some of it; and Obversaria was talking about it, I suppose.”

“How we keep any secrets around dragons I do not know,” Laurence says. “Yes, the Emperor is not pleased to have lost a chance at Temeraire; I suppose it is nothing of consequence.”

Upon hearing his name Temeraire swings his head back around to peer at the pair. “I am sure he is also most interested in you, Laurence,” the dragon says generously. “After all, I have not even spoken to this Emperor, and he is not writing to _me._ ”

“Thank you, my dear,” is Laurence's dry reply. “I am not sure that I want the Emperor's interest, however,” and Granby laughs quietly.

Just then the east watch-wingsmen gives a signal. “Sirs!” he hollers. “Six wings!”

Temeraire is already following the formation southward. Six dragons are visible in the distance. “Prepare for action, Mr. Granby,” says Laurence. Granby transfers his harness as he gives the order.

In the air two lightweights – common Pascal Blue's – fly at the tail of a formation behind two Honneur d'Ors and a Parnassian. These Lily's formation can best easily enough; Laurence is more concerned about the Flamme-de-Gloire they are encircling. The yellow-spotted mid-weight is taking turns diving at a frigate, veering away after each swoop to avoid the ship's guns. The ship's sails already smoke from its efforts, Laurence notes grimly.

The French dragons tighten ranks as they approach. Laurence himself spots the signals from Little's back. “Temeraire - “

“Yes, I see it,” and Temeraire peels away from the formation to chase the firebreather.

Overhead the formation makes their first pass; Laurence forces himself not to watch, focusing on the mid-weight as it spins to face them. He raises his voice. “Are the grenadiers prepared, Mr. Granby?”

“Aye, Sir.”

Prepared, but of little help – not against this enemy. “Have Mr. Roland secure the powder. Riflemen prepare for first volley.”

Temeraire is still new enough that the French don't know how to predict him. He sweeps past the Flamme-de-Gloire and deliberately tilts out of reach of the creature's claws – too far, even, for his own talons to be helpful. Then he spins on a dime and stills, hovering, while his riflemen shoot for the Flamme-de-Gloire's unprotected back and wings as it flies away.

The dragon cries, wheeling around with none of the same grace. Temeraire lunges forward to grab the firebreather's torso with vicious strength. Red spurts of flame begin to flicker at the Flamme-de-Gloire's jaw, and Laurence shouts, “To your left!”

Temeraire ducks down in time to avoid the flames just as their riflemen release another round of shot. Most of the bullets vanish into the fire, but a strangled roar tells Laurence that at least a few have hit their mark. A body from the French dragon is cut away and falls the long drop toward the ocean.

The rear signal-ensign calls, “Sir, enemy approaching above!” Laurence looks; one of the Pou-de-Ciels.

He relays the information, but it seems that the French formation is scattering. Both of the Pou-de-Ciels flocks down and attempt to pry him from the firebreather. Temeraire lashes out at one, twists, and leaves his back perfectly exposed for a close pass by the second.

But the little dragon doesn't even try to attack him, a likely futile action. Instead nearly a dozen men lunge from their straps and fall to Temeraire's back.

“Boarders!” Granby shouts, and Temeraire jerks with surprise.

One quick roll flicks off two of the boarders like insects; they fall screaming to the ocean below. Laurence grabs his sword as Temeraire pulls away from his fight, flying level now, and the battle begins in earnest. The two Pou-de-Ciels are being harassed by Immortalis and Messoria, and capturing Temeraire may be the only hope of return for any Frenchman aboard.

It is difficult – nearly impossible – to watch Temeraire's course with this distraction. Laurence does not try. He draws his pistols and adjusts his carabiners, standing ready as two midshipmen take up position behind him. He is almost – almost – accustomed to this now, the indignity of hiding behind his own men.

One of them is shot down, blood spraying from his neck while his body still teeters; Laurence is not quite so well-adjusted that this doesn't make him wince.

With brutal practicality he unlatches the poor man – Midshipman Yates, nearly unrecognizable -

and lets the body tumble below.

It clears a space. Midshipman Beck, pale with this quick tragedy, shoots at another officer coming in their direction – which is when Laurence remembers that Beck is a damn poor shot. He brings out his own pistol and fires, striking a glancing blow at a Frenchman's arm.

Then Beck cries out, gripping his leg, and Laurence glances down to see a bloom of red spilling around the man's ankle. He grips his pistol tighter as more French officers – two, this time – pry their way forward.

He tries to aim – can't, without hitting one of his own men swinging ineffectually at the pair – and drops his pistol. It skids off Temeraire's back and vanishes into empty air. He takes up his sword instead, hoping he has not erred as Beck retreats to his side and the Frenchmen reach Temeraire's neck. The two foreign midshipman hesitate, clearly surprised to have made it so far, and then lunge forward at once.

He blocks a swing from the officer on the right and has to twist away when a sword slices near his shoulder; it clips the top of his skin, leaving a long, shallow slice. In the next motion the second officer sweeps at him horizontally and the blade scrapes along the surface of his abdomen. Laurence takes a quick step back and raises his sword again.

Then Temeraire lurches suddenly, knocking everyone off their feet. Laurence clutches his sword desperately, but one of the midshipman looses his; with one quick thrust Laurence knocks the weapons away from the other man.

At this moment, of course, Granby makes his way over. He takes in the situation and sighs, relieved. “All boarders repelled, captain!”

* * *

 

“Now, just look at you two nursemaids,” Harcourt says. “ - Have you ever seen such a sight, John?”

Granby rolls his eyes lightly. “You should have seen Temeraire before the captain would have his shoulder patched,” he says. “Come, Laurence, it is only a scratch.”

Keynes nods his agreement, clearly irritated with the hovering. The surgeon is in the midst of applying a strip of cloth several feet long to Temeraire's foreleg; it is hard to think of this as a 'scratch'. “Oh, it really is,” Temeraire contributes earnestly. “Please go eat something, Laurence, you will feel much better.”

“Oh, yes, you can eat while you read your new letter,” Harcourt says. She is grinning viciously.

Laurence pauses. His heart sinks. “Letter?”

“A messenger from the village brought it – along with three fat cows _just_ for Temeraire, as he keeps saying. I suppose he was paid well. Shall we expect a goat and a request for your hand, next?”

Laurence does not grace this with a reply. Granby shakes with repressed laughter as he strides away from Temeraire's clearing to retrieve the latest missive.

The parchment on which it is written feels rich and fine. The message reads thus:

 

 

 

> William Laurence,
> 
> In my letter I asked you tell me why you suited Temeraire as a companion. Here I hold your letter, captain, with an answer. You speak of friendship, autonomy, and the natural merit of each soul – the freedom to choose, to have personal liberty outside the bonds of duty. These are practically Jacobin ideas, Captain. Are you a revolutionary? One sort of enemy or another, I suppose, but at least the latter usually tends to stab at me politically instead of in earnest.
> 
> The French officers lately returned to us from the Amitié's capture lament their loss but do look forward to setting out again; I assure you, Captain, we do not suffer for the lack, though I am sure the acquisition of a superior French vessel seems a great victory to you.
> 
> Your Celestial is causing a commotion among the Armeé de L'Aire; I am sure this will please you both.
> 
> Resp., N.
> 
>  

What an odd way to end.

Somewhere nearby Temeraire makes quick work of the three cows; Lieutenant Granby and Captain Roland have departed at last, perhaps sensing his displeasure with the message – although Excidium's raised voice in a nearby clearing, plaintively asking for a second dinner as he watches Temeraire's 'unfair gluttony', may have something more to do with it.

After a moment, Laurence pauses and frowns down at the letter. “Celestial?” He wonders.

* * *

 

“Of course it is bad news; and wonderful, but there will be hell if the Chinese learn we have a Celestial,” Admiral Lenton says. “Well, there is one thing I can say – no one might argue these letters are worthless. Keep writing the upstart, Captain, and see what else he might slip.”

Laurence tries to hide his dismay. “As you say, Sir.”

He retires to the officer's room later that evening. Granby is there with Little and Chenery, a little disheveled from some activity Laurence doesn't look into; he looks up when Laurence joins them. “Laurence, whatever did Lenton tell you? You look like you will be hanged.”

“Oh, I would hate to live Laurence's life,” Chenery says, and looks up with a grin to show he is joking. “ - He has that expression always, so I suppose he must always expects the worst – come now, what is it?”

“Oh, just some business with letters,” he sighs, and the men straighten up at once.

Laurence pauses and looks between them. “I hope,” he says, “That not _everyone_ in the covert knows about my personal affairs?”

“Well,” says Granby, looking not very guilty, “One _might_ say that it is official business”

Chenery doesn't even pretend to be repentant. “Is the old codger going after your head, then?” Even Captain Little looks mildly interested.

“I beg your pardon, but I do not find this an appropriate topic,” he says stiffly. The last letter weighs heavy and stiff in his pocket, read many times over, and he cannot stop thinking of that word _Celestial._ Of how Napoleon knew something of Temeraire that he did not.

Granby, at least, has the grace to look a bit apologetic; Chenery is just disappointed. The latter opens his mouth, clearly intent on changing Laurence's mind, when suddenly the door to the officers' lounge bursts open. “Captain Laurence!” A young runner bursts in breathlessly. “Sir, Sir, there is a messenger outside, a courier-dragon – he has come to bring you a letter from Paris!”

Everyone in the room turns to stare at Laurence. He stares, too, until the boy quells.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnston,” he says icily. “Pray ask your schoolmaster about the meaning of _discretion_ at the next available opportunity; I beg your pardon, John, Captains.”

“Oh, don't mind us,” says Chenery, and Laurence stifles a sigh. He heads outside.

The dragon is a little almond-colored Plein-Vite. She skips away from her curious onlookers uneasily, the young captain on her back swaying with each motion. “Oh, is that him?” she asks anxiously, and when someone nods she asks in plaintive French, “ _That_ is the captain, Josué. May we give it to him and go?”

Her captain gives her a despairing glance, then turns to Laurence and leaps down. “Captain William Laurence?” he says in thick English. “A package for you with regards from His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor Napoleon.”

The letter on top is not a surprise – but at least, Laurence thinks despairingly, this package does not seem of any size or weight to contain gold or gems. The courier does not seem to expect a response from him. Laurence barely grasps the package, nodding, before he has turned and leaped back aboard his dragon. They are winging away in an instant, a white flag of truce billowing in the wind behind them.

“Now, _that_ is something,” Granby says. He has appeared out of the officer's lounge with an entire group. “So what is it?”

“I daresay I do not know,” Laurence responds pointedly. A few people, disappointed, begin to drift off. Granby eyes him a bit and only walks away. Laurence looks after him and sighs. Temeraire will doubtlessly be curious about the package – likely, hopefully, the contents are intended for him – so with that in mind he sets off to the clearing.

The dragon is eager as expected, rubbing at his golden wristlets with anticipation as soon as he understands the cause of Laurence's unease. Laurence is entirely unsurprised to find Granby already waiting nearby; he should perhaps be annoyed at the presumption, but he can only manage a sort of exhaustion.

“I confess I am confused,” he admits aloud. “ - I have just recently received his latest letter, and have not yet sent a reply.”

“Perhaps he thought of an addendum,” Granby says, “Or mayhaps he was just thinking of you.”

Laurence indulges himself by shooting Granby an irritable glance. The lieutenant returns the look innocently. Laurence reaches down and unseals the letter.

Then, blinking in disbelief, he turns and opens the box.

“What the devil,” Granby says.

It is a coat. By far the finest aviator's uniform he has ever seen, with - Laurence pauses to tap one incredulously – are they _gold_ buttons?

“Why,” he despairs aloud.

“How very handsome,” Temeraire approves. “That is the proper thing to do, Laurence, since his men have been so awful and ruined everything in the first place.” If Temeraire feels any guilt over the many goods, ships, and _people_ they have destroyed together, he does not show it. “You should certainly thank him in your next letter.”

“I damn well will not.”

Granby snorts loudly. When Laurence turns to glare at him the lieutenant smiles as though butter would not melt in his mouth. “Oh, yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “ Thank him... Manners, and all that.” Laurence narrows his eyes.

“I shall tell him to stop – _this,_ at once.” And Laurence sweepingly encompasses the garish coat and Temeraire's well-loved anklets with one gesture. “I do not know what Bonaparte means to do, but I do not trust him.”

“Whyever should he stop?” Temeraire asks. “I think it is very excellent of him, Laurence; you are always saying that being in a war is no reason to be impolite or dishonorable, and it seems to me that this Napoleon is being very polite to you.”

“That is certainly one term for it,” Granby notes.

“Three men were killed in that fight,” Laurence says flatly. “Three of our men only, Temeraire, and several Frenchmen. I cannot claim to know the numbers on the other dragons. And here - “ Laurence holds up the letter, “Bonaparte talks of lost coats and new debts – if this is what he deems grievous about the war, I wonder over his priorities.”

Even Granby sobers. “Well,” says the lieutenant, and then, awkwardly, “Well...”

“Laurence,” Temeraire protests.

“My dear, it is a farce – I do not know if he provokes me deliberately, but I can be sure he takes the greatest delight in reminding us that he knows everything that happens on this side of the Channel.” Laurence tosses aside the letter.

Granby frowns at him. “These exchanges _do_ bother you, don't they? Oh, I am sorry Laurence; here I have put my foot in it. I thought it just some strange whim of Boney's to write you, as madmen get, but I am sure if you say the word to Lenton - “

“No,” Laurence sighs. “He has given useful information today, perhaps; and not for the first time. No, I will continue to write him. But I fear I shall not understand him at all.”

“If that is your concern, you will be troubled forever. Is there anyone who understands Napoleon Bonaparte?”

* * *

 

When Granby has left, Laurence finally retrieves the latest letter and looks it over again.

 

 

 

> Dear Will Laurence,
> 
> I hope this letter finds you well, captain, and have no reason to believe otherwise. I have had reports of your latest encounter with Accendare's formation over the Channel; eight men killed, and a dozen captured. Captain Bonheur waits now in Wissant covert, much wounded.
> 
> I am told, captain, that you fought valiantly in this encounter. I confess when I hear of your exploits I consider it a travesty that you have given your loyalties to that Hellscape called England, where dragons are damned and men are made worms.
> 
> I find your letters curiously diverting. Try to not die in battle, captain. I will not bother to make mention of capture, which, you will surely agree, is a fate far worse.
> 
> I hope you will accept this gift to replace what losses you might have incurred in fighting; I look forward to a full accounting of your condition.
> 
> N.

* * *

 

 

 

> Addressing Napoleon Buonaparte, Self-Proclaimed Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Defender of the Rhine:
> 
> Your Majesty, I hope this letter finds you well, and I suggest that if you think in one Sentence to insult England and yet offer me any Compliment you will find yourself at a Failure. I must utterly reject your gift and your Intentions both.
> 
> In regard to your previous letter, I will tell you I am no revolutionary; I am and have always been dedicated to the service of His Majesty's forces and the preservation of Britain. I would stress this point, Sir, so that there will be no Misunderstandings of any sort.
> 
> If I may be so bold, I would add that I have been in the navy and the Corps for Nineteen years. In this time I have served, fought, and parleyed with many varieties of commanders. Rarely have I met a man so brazen as to suggest that the materials of a gold-cuffed coat could pay for the lives of men. You may keep it and your well-wishes and be damned.
> 
> -Captain William Laurence
> 
>  

“I wonder if any information he gives us is deliberate, accidental, or just a pack of damn lies...” A sigh. “...Well. Apparently, the Foreign Office did not much like your last letter, but they did send it on,” Admiral Lenton says. “They are getting a bit tired of playing messenger, I think; or rather, how they phrased it is that sending the letters to be read first takes too much time. I wonder when Boney will get tired of this?”

 

 

 

> Dearest William,
> 
> To your continued health! I see I have offended you, Captain, but know that was not my intention. Your criticisms are well-founded, but never think that I forget the lives lost in war. This being said, if we are to look only at the greatest scope of tragedy there will be no room to see anything else. Sometimes it is necessary to focus on the small things in life. As a soldier your should understand this.
> 
> I was in Cadiz recently with Marshal Lannes when the commander of the city approached and told me they would be hosting a grand funeral for the daughter of the governor; I attended and found no one weeping, Captain, but neither were they cold to the girl's death. They spoke softly of her life and of the future – though, of course she would not share it with them. Lannes called it an avoidance. That was cynical of him, I think, and cynicism is not always wise. Humans cannot focus on tragedy. We must look toward something better – we must create something better if we can. You are correct in this: we are both soldiers. So instead of wallowing forever in death, as we must on the field, try to imagine the purpose of your work.
> 
> I confess, perhaps that is easier for a man of France than someone in your position. I challenge you, Captain, to tell me what you fight for so ferociously in that little island nation of yours.
> 
> I offer no apologies.
> 
> Napoleon

* * *

 

The man named Choiseul is a proper example of a soldier – a royalist, the man fled France when Bonaparte came into power and has since continued to fight against the false claimant. _That_ is loyalty – perhaps loyalty that a man like Bonaparte, himself, can never understand.

Laurence is reflecting on this fact as Temeraire says, “But Laurence, surely if you were born in France now, you would be loyal to Bonaparte, and if you were born in China, you would be loyal to the Emperor there – indeed if you were born in France a few decades previous, I am sure you would be loyal to this Louis person – and I do not understand how you can say loyalty is such an excellent thing when it is all based on luck and chance. It would make more sense if England were _clearly_ the best place in the world, but if that were so than I suppose everyone else would recognize it too.”

It is late night, the clearing quite deserted. “Dear Temeraire, what you are suggesting verges on treason. You cannot say we should turn on our country - “

“I am not at all saying that, I simply do not understand why we should _not,”_ Temeraire maintains.

“You were hatched on the _Reliant_ and now we serve together,” Laurence says. “Is that a horrible thing, Temeraire?”

“No, but that is not always so; the situation with countries seems to me rather more like the case with poor Levitas and Rankin. Levitas never would have chosen to be with him, and now he is attached to someone horrible and will go nowhere else. I am sure if I were older I _would_ have chosen you as my captain, Laurence, but everyone should still have a choice.” And that is rather hard to argue.

“But people must be born somewhere, in some kingdom or country,” Laurence says.

“But not expected to love it or think it the best, and not expected to hate everyone else, I think,” Temeraire says. “ - Oh, I do not know if it _can_ be managed better, but I do know nothing is managed well at all; certainly I fail entirely to understand why Choiseul is a hero, and French, and Bonaparte is our enemy, and French, when all Choiseul did was run away like a coward when the Bourbon kings were cut down.”

Laurence hesitates.

“Also,” Temeraire says, “I _know_ that the Emperor sent you that coat back with his last letter, and I do wish you would wear it; it would look so very excellent, Laurence, I am certain of it.”

* * *

 

 

 

> Addressing Napoleon Bonaparte, Current Emperor of France:
> 
> Sir, may I say sincerely that I hope the good health of the Proper ruler of France shall always prevail.
> 
> I must disagree entirely that the greater War can be overlooked for individual needs; to ignore the Totality of war for even an instant provides only an excuse for war's continuation, and if your last letter exampled your philosophy I begin to gain new insights into the current state of the world.
> 
> One man may find a hundred excuses for his own ambitions. One man in power may thus find a thousand excuses for war. To ignore human costs is only to encourage this grossest form of Negligence, and I cannot find in myself the slightest sympathy for your argument.
> 
> There are certainly correct reasons for war; these reasons include Defense of a nation, Defense of innocent peoples, Defense of personal freedoms and allies. I fight for England because she has a righteous cause. I would challenge you, Your Majesty, to make the same claim.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> William Laurence

* * *

 

So Choiseul is, apparently, a traitor. This rather invalidates many of the patriotic lessons Laurence has been trying to impart to Temeraire over the past few days, especially since the Frenchman's attempted kidnapping of Catherine has firmly branded the man as a brigand in the eyes of all dragons in the covert. It is the information the man gives, however, that chills Laurence.

He goes to see Choiseul himself before the man's scheduled execution. The Captain is despondent; he knows well the fate of a spy. To his credit, however, he seems ready to face his end with dignity. He straightens when Laurence approaches.

“Yes,” he says. “I had thought to see you again.”

Laurence frowns. “You were here for Temeraire?” He guesses. It has only been a suspicion of his. Choiseul has already been questioned and sentenced, but he knows of Napoleon's interest in the dragon.

Choiseul surprises him, though. “Temeraire is yours – entirely yours. That is the decree.” Choiseul shifts from foot to foot, smiling ruefully. “I was here to learn information, tactics, patrol-routes... and you.”

“Me?” Laurence asks.

“The Emperor is curious about you. He wanted a full report. Your family. Your personality. Your acquaintances...”

Laurence leans back.

“Relatively standard information, of course, for an enemy or prospective ally,” Choiseul says. “I wonder, Captain, what does he consider you?”

* * *

 

Napoleon's next letter is slower in coming than expected; Laurence finds himself, for perhaps the first time, waiting for it with some impatience. He has questions which need answers – questions about Choiseul's statement at the top of that list.

But November turns into December, and when the first snows fall Laurence is certain that Napoleon has lost his strange fascination for good. Perhaps it is just as well, he tells himself.

“I would like this snow if it were not cold,” Temeraire observes as they fly around the covert. Tiny flakes scatter away under his wings and collect slowly to melt on Temeraire's warm back. “Laurence, you have been quiet of late; is something wrong?”

“No, my dear, nothing at all.”

“You are very small – you are certain it is not too chill?”

“I am quite accustomed to the cold.”

Temeraire presses. “And there is nothing - ?”

“What is that?” Laurence interrupts.

Temeraire twists his neck around. “ - A courier,” he says after a moment. “But oh, they are flying so oddly.”

“I think it is Levitas,” Laurence says.

* * *

 

Temeraire is the local hero after the Battle of Dover. But like all dragons who fought at the battle he is worn by the efforts of that day and still tends to sleep heavily a week later. He is in fact sleeping at midday when a runner comes up to Laurence and tells him that there is a courier at the gates, under a white flag, who carries a letter.

Laurence walks to the gate with the runner stumbling at his heels and glances around the half-deserted covert. It is perhaps his imagination, but it seems that aviators watch as he passes, averting their faces when he turns to look. Eventually he focuses on his path and turns away from them.

The messenger at the gate – a French private overlooked by half a dozen suspicious guards – hands over his message with a stiff half-bow. Laurence spares only a moment to wonder over the temerity of the man to walk right into hostile territory. It is debatable if the private volunteered or committed a grievous error recently.

After the private is escorted away attention turns to Laurence again, so he retreats to his own rooms to read the letter:

 

 

>  
> 
> Dearest William,
> 
> My men are damning you to hell in every covert and base, Captain. I congratulate you on your victory. I confess, I did not expect the Divine Wind to be displayed in quite so dramatic a fashion. It is far more impressive than I expected.
> 
> Before, I have said that I will give you no apologies for my philosophies. Now, again, I have no regrets except that our efforts in Dover did not proceed as planned. Perhaps we will meet again on the field. I would like to see your Temeraire in person.
> 
> You have asked about the cause of this war. I would ask you this, Captain Laurence: what do you know of France? What do you know in truth about the Revolution, about the heart of the bloody Republic and the hatred that can make a people rise and kill their lords and soldiers? For they did kill soldiers; the commonfolk gathered in droves to find the noble officers (like the English now, it was so common to promote on the basis of nobility!) and the best and basest both were killed in that Revolution. The finest and worst of France gone in an instant...
> 
> Is that the spirit to be protected? The Republic that emerged was a grand thing but clouded, confused; she needed direction and I have provided it. You may deny this if you like, but you will not change what is true. France is a richer, a more equal nation than she has ever been. I fight to preserve her. I fight to spread her knowledge. These are good causes so far as I know. England, I think, fights only to uphold her pride and the old monarchy that no one loves. It is not I who insists on waging this war, Captain, and it was your government who declared it must be fought. But neither will I submit my country to a tyrant once a challenge has been issued.
> 
> England and France need not be enemies; but if there will be war, then France will emerge the victor.
> 
> -N.
> 
>  

It strikes Laurence as ridiculous for Bonaparte to deny responsibility for a war days after an attempted invasion of England.

That is the implication, anyway, in all his talk of the Revolution. Laurence sits in his quarters bending and smoothing the corners of the parchment with his fingers until the corners have turned soft and curled. Then he shakes his head roughly and sets it aside. On his desk a stubby candle burns low. Darkness sets in outside through slow increments.

At last he rises and looks through his cases until he finds an old box – it contains bundled letters, newspaper clippings, remnants of orders that are not too confidential for keeping. Bonaparte's own letters have found their final place here – he is sure the Ministry has made their own copies of the earliest ones, but they may be of use one day – and now he rifles through the frail scraps for one item in particular.

He finds it at last; the declaration of war from 1803, published in the Gazette, which announced Britain's formal intent to go to war with France.

It is true, on a technical level, that it was Britain who violated the 1802 Treaty of Amiens which brokered a brief peace between the two nations. They had even previously reneged on some of the terms – they had refused to give up the island of Malta, for example, which had infuriated Bonaparte – but neither could the French be called blameless. No one could ignore the Emperor's increasing incursions into Europe – no one could ignore the continuous outrages against England's allies.

It might be argued, of course, that these were not England's concern.

Laurence shuffles the papers back together until the article is lost in one large, jumbled heap. Then he places these papers into the box and sets it down. This line of thought is precisely what Bonaparte wants to encourage, of course, and Laurence has no intention of indulging him.

No intention.

* * *

 

Temeraire bends over Laurence where he sits with quill and parchment. “Laurence, would you mind very much if I asked something of Napoleon?”

Laurence startles. “Whatever would you ask?” he blurts. And then, abashed, he adds, “Of course you may, my dear – and I am sure he would be interested in your comments – indeed, I have been quite at a loss for something to say.” Laurence sets down the quill: “ - But is there something in particular that has been troubling you?”

“I have been thinking very much of the war, but I know he has written to you already about that,” Temeraire says. “And I suppose it is not _particularly_ useful to ask Napoleon about the war, because of course he will say France fights for a good reason, and _you_ will say England fights for a good reason, and you will both believe it, which is not useful at all.”

Laurence shifts his shoulders. “My dear, you speak as though you doubt England's cause.”

Temeraire barrels forward: “Therefore,” he says as though Laurence has not spoken, “I should like to ask him about something else entirely.”

Temeraire dictates his questions. Laurence is left eyeing him doubtfully. “My dear, I do understand your interest, but what is the possible relevance to our situation?” He wants to know.

“Oh, do just ask, Laurence; I will explain once we have had his answer.”

* * *

 

Bonaparte does not send his reply immediately. Laurence has little time to dwell on the correspondence before he's summoned to greet yet more visitors at the covert entrance. When Laurence learns who they are he decides he would rather have another French messenger.

He enters to find Lenton standing and waiting with the group. An anxious official from the foreign office paces in front of an impassive Chinese delegation. When the red-faced official spots Laurence he lunges for his hand.

“William Laurence! Arthur Hammond, yes, good to have met you – may I introduce you to Prince Yongxing, of the Imperial Throne - “

Laurence accepts the manhandling as Lenton looks on, pinched. “I beg your pardon,” Laurence says after Mr. Hammond has gone through an exhaustive list of foreign names; “It is a pleasure, I am sure, but why am I here?”

“An excellent question,” says the admiral.

“The prince has come from China to speak to you about Temeraire,” Hammond says quickly. “But first his party stopped by France to find out why the egg never reached Napoleon.”

Laurence and Lenton look at one another.

“They have some news for you,” Hammond continues.

“The divine line of Celestial dragons have for centuries become companions to the royal house of my ancestors,” says the prince. He is short, but he manages to look down at Laurence. “It was intended that a great Emperor would be the support for Lung Tien Xiang – the dragon you call _Temeraire.”_

“...I see.”

“A common soldier cannot companion a Celestial,” Yongxing says flatly. Laurence tenses, an argument rising to his throat: “Fortunately, Napoleon Bonaparte has found a gracious solution to this problem.”

“ - Has he,” asks Lenton.

Another Chinese delegate steps up and hands Laurence a scroll of parchment. “You are now a prince of the French Empire,” he says cheerfully. The man spreads his hands wide, his wide face beaming. “Congratulations!”

* * *

 

Temeraire has been admiring the Writ of Nobility so long that Laurence fears it will become another part of his ever-increasing hoard. At last he has to say, “Pray do not be too enamored with it, Temeraire; I do not understand Napoleon's intentions, but this is entirely a farce – entirely. I am a Prince of nothing, and certainly no Frenchman.”

“Ought we not thank him?” Temeraire asks. “It is a splendid thing, Laurence, and I do not understand why you keep protesting.” This is a delicate understatement; Laurence just spent two hours in the admiral's office trying to determine how to retract the title. “You _should_ be a prince, it is only correct that someone has acknowledged it. I am certain you will get lands and properties later,” he adds, judiciously.

Laurence sighs.

Admiral Lenton had been quick to send off a full report to the Foreign Office, but their representative, Hammond, seemed queerly excited rather than concerned. A Celestial on British grounds, he had told Laurence privately, would give the British a sure foothold into Chinese diplomacy. He seems not to care that the same Celestial is only permitted to remain at the cost of a French title.

The news will doubtlessly be over the covert within a day or two. When Laurence had admitted the matter to Granby his lieutenant exclaimed, “God, does Boney want you drawn and quartered as a traitor?” which seems perfectly possible.

But Temeraire refuses to share these reservations. “I wish we could see France,” he continues, further alarming Laurence. “I am sure this Napoleon would not be sending us off to be always doing drills, Laurence, and other boring things. The most interesting company we have had in weeks is that Incan fellow, and he will be going to Pen Y Fan soon, too.”

“You have the Chinese for at least awhile yet; and I pray you do not think too well of a place you have never known, Temeraire. France is no paradise, and Napoleon no benevolent savior.”

“I did not claim he is a savior – but he is not dull,” which is rather harder to refute.

With this new distraction Laurence nearly forgets about Temeraire's letter to the Emperor, but a reply comes just three days after the Chinese delegation takes up residence in town. Laurence is already beginning to attract a few stranger-than-normal looks around the covert and he can only hope rumors have not begun to circulate.

He keeps the letter tucked into his coat and waits until nightfall to take Temeraire on a short flight alone. They stop on a lonely hillock within sight of Dover so that the town has become a small scattering of houses on the horizon. Then Laurence withdraws the letter to read it aloud:

 

 

 

> “To the esteemed Temeraire:
> 
> I am ashamed! I am in error for not addressing you directly until now; accept my sincerest apologies. But to answer your questions, Temeraire, is no easy thing.
> 
> I have long been acquainted with the state of dragons in my country. My brother Murat and son Eugene are both among the Armée de l'Air. I do not believe that progress must be slow; it is only as slow as the man who leads. In my years as Consul we constructed heated, enclosed quarters for the dragons. Their rations are managed by each covert's own men and in republican fashion all dragons have been given good ranks under their captains so as to have a legal say in their welfare.
> 
> Inclusion into cities, as you asked about, is more difficult. Cities are unfortunately small and well-established, but any cities to be built in the future will have larger roads. That proclamation was issued years ago.
> 
> I am open to any suggestions you have on this front, good Temeraire! The improvement of my country and all my citizens, human and dragon, is always forefront in my mind.
> 
> -Nap.

In a separate slip of parchment, written in a quick scrawl, is this note:

> I hope you will not find my latest gift displeasing, Captain – may it ease matters for you, and I hope you will accept it in the intended spirit of camaraderie.
> 
> -N.

 

There is nothing else.

“Now that is... nice,” says Temeraire, and oddly falters. “...Will you be writing a response, Laurence?”

“Yes, my dear. Would you like to make one as well.”

“No, only – only give my thanks, for the reply. I believe I should like to fly.” And, shaking out his wings, Temeraire leaps into the air without ado.

Laurence looks after him a moment. Temeraire becomes a distant dot circling his position on the hill. Then he sits down on the dewy grass, uncaring of his penmanship or the chill night air:

 

 

 

> Addressing Napoleon Bonaparte,
> 
> I had thoughts of beginning this letter by wishing you good holidays, Your Majesty, but I find myself Beset with new distractions.
> 
> A Chinese delegation that I suspect you have Met, lead by Prince Yongxing, has arrived in Dover; this news should be no surprise to you. They state, to the great bewilderment of our Foreign Office, that I am now a Prince.

He will not say, 'French prince'; even this much seems ridiculous. Laurence hesitates and stares at the parchment.

> I would appreciate an explanation.
> 
> Temeraire thanks you for your answers; I believe he has found them of great interest.
> 
> Yours Sincerely, etc.,
> 
> William Laurence

* * *

 

“I suppose it is expected that the French will take time to regroup,” Granby says. “ - It is damn eerie anyway.”

Laurence nods. The wind tugs his coat as Temeraire takes a sharp turn and follows the rest of the formation back west. “Perhaps more drills - “

“If you don't mind me saying,” Granby interjects, “Well, Sir, we've had half a dozen drills just today.”

In fact they have been doing nothing _but_ drilling; even Immortalis near the front of the formation, usually a very serious dragon, is occasionally weaving out of his place from sheer boredom. Poor Lily is snuffling queerly and itching at her facial spurs. They haven't spotted a French wing in weeks, and the other formations are reporting only occasional guards along the opposite coast since the disastrous Battle of Dover.

“You are quite right,” Laurence concedes; ahead of them Immortalis sneezes explosively. “And this weather is not raising morale,” he admits gloomily.

Granby is about to respond when a call goes up: “Seven wings on the horizon, Sir, to our South!”

Laurence does not recognize the formation. Granby doesn't seem to either. “Oh, but that is a Flamme-de-Gloire,” Temeraire says a bit too eagerly. He bobs his head up and flaps out of his spot for just a moment before settling back into position contritely.

In the distance the French formation begins to arc away.

“Those cowards,” Granby groans. Ahead Harcourt directs the formation to quicken their pace, but it is no use; they cannot catch the French without exhausting their dragons. They fall back, finally, and wheel back for the English coast.

A collective sigh seems to run along Temeraire's crew.

“I know it is not good to want fighting,” says Temeraire in a low voice – or what the dragon thinks is a low voice, presumably. The wind is still curving high and sharp over his shoulders, and the Celestial has to whisper-shout in his rumbling voice for Laurence to make out his words. “But, oh, it has been so very _dull_ lately!”

They head back to the covert without any excitement whatsoever.

* * *

 

Prince Yongxing has been keeping his distance, but Sun Kai is a familiar sight at the covert after several days. Temeraire enjoys his translations of poetry and speaks to him in bits and pieces of Mandarin. The sounds seem utterly incomprehensible to Laurence when he sits in on one of their sessions after patrols.

“Forgive me Sir,” he says when Sun Kai seems likely to make his farewells; “May I ask how long your retinue will be staying in Dover?”

Sun Kai peers at him as though surprised to be addressed. “Oh – we do not like this country,” he confides. “It is cold, and there are no dragons,” which seems like an absurd thing to say in a covert. “We will return soon. But first I must teach Lung Tien Xiang his proper language.

So Laurence must be resigned.

It is a good distraction, at least, for the cold winter months. During these events Laurence receives an invitation for a New Years party at Wollaton Hall. The letter does not include any mention of a draconic guest, though; with regret he carefully declines.

 _“...I am afraid I have nothing of note to tell you,”_ he writes to his mother. _“Little changes in the covert...”_

The year passes. It is 1806.

* * *

 

“Oh, surely there is _some_ cure for this cold,” Temeraire says miserably. Laurence smiles ruefully. He would have more sympathy, but the complaints have been unending, day and night, and Temeraire is hardly the only dragon sniffling and sneezing. Nearly the whole covert has caught the mild cold sweeping through the area.

“Perhaps a swim?” he suggests. “I daresay it cannot hurt.” But that only makes Temeraire bemoan that he is cold, horrendously cold; Laurence orders a fire to be built in the Celestial's clearing.

Prince Yongxing arrives at midday to make his farewells, eyeing the dragon with displeasure. “China is warm,” the dragon is told. “Your sickness would not bother you in my country. It is this climate, I am sure, which gives you grief.”

“Warmth sounds lovely,” Temeraire sighs. His voice is queerly muffled. It sounds like he says 'lobely'. “But many dragons live here year-round and do very well. I am certain I will be fine. I wish you a very safe trip, Prince Yongxing.”

The prince has no choice but to bow with ill-grace. They escort him to the gate and watch the Chinese as they disappear in the direction of the city.

But Temeraire looks after the retinue a little wistfully when they have gone. “What I would not give to be warm again!” he sighs, slumping dramatically in front of the covert entrance.

But there is another group visible in the distance, and they slowly grow recognizable. “I suspect this will cheer you, my dear,” Laurence says. The sight does not cheer _him,_ but that is a different matter. “A messenger – I think he is from France.”

Temeraire perks up at once.

They wait several minutes. Temeraire thrums with impatience at Laurence's side the whole while. The messenger, in his brushed blue uniform, approaches them without any sign of fear despite the four riflemen dogging his steps. A lieutenant. He hands the letter to Laurence personally, bowing.

Temeraire sneezes.

“From His Majesty the Emperor,” the lieutenant says in accented English. He eyes Temeraire curiously.

Laurence gives his thanks and watches the man began the long, slow walk back down to the town. He feels an oddly regretful twinge.

Once back in the covert he opens the letter without waiting. Several members of his crew are still lounging around the area – a few are cleaning guns or working on harnesses, but two lieutenants sit playing cards and Emily has hunched herself over a book of mathematics with a resigned air – so he at first reads the letter in silence. After a moment his contemplation turns to horror. “I cannot believe his audacity,” Laurence sputters. “ - Good god, and _does_ he want me shot?”

“Oh, do not make me wait,” Temeraire says.

So, ignoring the other company, Laurence reads:

 

 

 

> My dearest William,
> 
> There is no need for thanks! I hope you are pleasantly surprised, but I will give you your explanation; in China, as you have doubtless heard, the people of that excellent country have the tradition of bonding their fine Celestials with royalty. An outdated tradition, I think, but I understand the importance of appearances. So I have made you a prince to smooth these matters, and soften the outrage of our Eastern friends.
> 
> Unfortunately there are no specific lands available to grant you at this time. I have proclaimed to the court as it stands that you shall hold certain lands of present England once it falls to the Empire, to which they agree. Until that day the lands are yours in name only.
> 
> Tell good Temeraire I am glad to answer his queries. Liberté, my brother's dear companion, has his own inquiries into the English system of draconic keeping and would be glad for a chance to write his royal cousin if it is welcome.
> 
> -N.

 

“Am I Liberté's cousin now? That is an odd formality,” Temeraire notes. “Though I _would_ very much like to write to a French dragon - “

“That is hardly the point,” Laurence says, shaking out the letter. “He offers what is not his to give, and tries to entice with friendship, to draw us in; I cannot understand if he means to be insulting or charming, but in any case there is no proper response to this letter.”

“I suppose it is _not_ polite, offering someone else's property like a thief,” Temeraire says. “It is somewhat like lying, really, and I wonder that the Chinese did not realize it.”

“Perhaps they did,” Laurence says grimly; perhaps the Chinese had reason to believe that Napoleon would make good on his evident plans to conquer England despite the failed invasion of Dover. With a heavy heart he stands. “Excuse me – I must take this to the Admiral.”

Lenton agrees with his assessment, but tells Laurence, “Captain, I don't think I can send this to the Foreign Office.”

“Sir?”

“Making you a French prince is bad enough – if word gets around that Bonaparte is backing _you_ for rule of England, jest or not, I can't even predict the response.”

“I assure you I have had no part in encouraging him,” Laurence says dryly.

“Nevertheless – the Crown must react or appear weak. Easier to just ignore it, I think, unless the subject is forced.”

Laurence must concede to this. “Are you suggesting then that we lie to the Office?”

Lenton taps his desk. “I am suggesting that _for your own good,_ it might be best to mislay this information awhile, Captain. Report to me if there are any _noticeable_ messengers with more letters, and I will work with Captain Little to take care of it. He's good with diplomacy.” An implication there; Laurence is not. “You are dismissed.”

Laurence frowns, but he does not ask any more questions. “Yes, Sir.”

* * *

 

“I don't know, Sir,” says Cadet Roland with a dubious glance toward Temeraire's clearing. “I think his color looks a bit better.”

“And how fares Excidium?”

Roland's wince is enough of a reply.

For a month the cold has swept through the coverts. Portsmouth has been infected too, Laurence is told, and London, Falmouth, Middlesbrough -

It is not quite, yet, a tactical problem; but an increasingly strained Admiral Lenton has been seen flying frequently to London for conferences, and to further the blow he takes a discreet courier each time. Partially this is because the dragons are staying from the public eye – no one needs France to hear rumor of any weakness. But also poor Obversaria, like the other Anglewings, has taken to flying in strange and exhausting loops. She can't quite keep in formation. The Armée de l'Air has been quiet since Dover, though, which is the only thing that provides any consolation. Laurence supposes there could be a worse time for this nuisance of an illness.

James and Volly deliver letters to the covert today. The familiar Greyling sniffles and sneezes badly during the distribution; none of the couriers have been spared from the illness, and indeed have probably contributed to spreading it. When Captain James flies personally to Temeraire's clearing to hand over a message Laurence gives him such a look of despair that the man laughs. “You did not come to check the drop-offs with everyone else,” he says. “ - Not that I can blame you, if rumors are to be believed! But, here, it is from one of your naval friends if I am not wrong.”

“Oh,” says Laurence, feeling a bit foolish; it is not as though he _only_ receives post from France. “Thank you.” He glances up to where Volly is trailing behind James, coughing with exaggerated care every few seconds. “How are you today, Volly?”

“Bad,” the dragon sulks.

James scoffs. “He whines – the couriers aren't affected as much as most of the others, you know. You should be glad,” he tells the Greyling, not without sympathy. Volly sneezes. “Is Temeraire around? Half the way here Volly jabbered about visiting him.”

“He would enjoy that – I think he is with Lily and Maximus right now.” A glance back reveals the top of Maximus' hulking bulk cresting over distant trees. Volly, teetering, leaps into the air at once.

James lowers his voice at once. “What _do_ you think of this cold? I have been lately up by Loch Laggan – poor Celeritas is laid down flat, and half the Longwings can't fly for sneezing acid all over themselves. Captain Waters was down by Gibraltar lately and says Laetificat has lost two tons already. If this goes much longer the French will notice.”

“They have not noticed yet,” Laurence says. “And illnesses pass; surely they cannot be afflicted forever.”

“I suppose,” James sighs. A riot of noises in Maximus' clearing makes James roll his eyes. “Excuse me...”

Laurence uses the rare privacy to turn his attention to Riley's letter. His old friend has been posted as First Lieutenant on the _Grace_ after the Battle of Dover and has little good news. The fleet took a minor beating by some of the dragons during that conflict and still isn't fully healed. Villeneuve is making incursions to Britain's western holdings, as usual – nothing interesting.

 _“...And of late we have had complaints that the dragons are not doing their Share in this war,”_ Riley notes. _“I would not claim to share this view – certainly not to profess any knowledge of aerial warfare, or an accounting of what injuries might have been sustained after Dover. But I fear that discontent toward the Corps has grown distressingly common,”_ which is to say, even more common than before.

But it means that their own men, at least, are noticing the Corp's sudden reticence. Laurence may as well funnel all his mail through Lenton, he thinks gloomily, and sighing leaves the quiet clearing to find the man.

Lenton is actually dining in the main hall; given the informal nature of the letter Laurence simply reports the issue there. The admiral sighs.

“Yes – yes, I should not be surprised, I suppose, that our people are not idiots,” he says. “I shall have to see about getting more patrols in the air... some way or another, some way or another.” He shakes his head. “Don't worry about that for the moment, Captain. Attend to your dragon. Lord knows each and every one of them has become priceless.”

* * *

 

“She is miserable,” says Harcourt. “Miserable, the poor dear – oh, I don't know what to do - “

Harcourt herself has seen better days. Aviators tend to have wrinkled coats, and Laurence has before noted the tendency of covert officers to eschew their cravats, but Harcourt looks like she's rolled out of bed and halfway through a field before stumbling into the mess. Not that she's alone; Berkley drops beside her a moment later, blinking a bit hazily, and grasps for a cup. His face seems thinner and purplish bags have spread under his eyes. “What,” he asks blankly, looking around at them. “Is it a conspiracy?”

No one has to ask what he means. “Granby practically threw me from the clearing,” Laurence mutters.

“Lieutenant Hobbes told Lily I would make myself sick, and _she_ made me leave – it was cruel, I think. She is too ill to worry,” Harcourt says.

“My big fool worries enough without prodding,” Berkley says. “But, aye, half my crew dragged me out – oh, it _is_ a party.” He raises his cup without humor as Warren and Chenery drop down, too.

“Just had a message from the admiral,” Warren says, and passes a piece of parchment to Harcourt. She reads it and curses.

“We can't go back to _regular patrols,”_ she says.

“What?” Berkley demands.

Laurence shakes his head. “The entire covert is affected. If we are not seen to be patrolling the French must notice eventually - “

“And if we _do_ patrol, the dragons will drop like flies – or Lily will sneeze on someone,” Berkley points out. “The French will damn well notice when our dragons die.”

There's a brief pause.

“ - If they just rest a few days,” Harcourt says, choosing to ignore Berkley's remark. “A few solid days of no work at all...”

“No,” Warren sighs. “Laurence is right, I do hate to say it. We cannot appear vulnerable, not now.”

“Well we cannot let them fight,” Chenery bursts. It is strange to see him so agitated. “They will be tossed in a second, even if we do have the good luck of outnumbering the enemy – and we cannot count on that. A show of force is all well and good, provided we don't fall right out of the sky, but if we actually get in a fight - “

A commotion by the door makes him stop. Half the hall turns as a sudden babble of voices rises and then, abruptly, falls into silence. Laurence turns and finds to his surprise that Jane Roland is at the doorway, a small piece of parchment clutched in her hand.

Pale, she tells the room, “Conterrenis is dead at Edinburgh. He started coughing up acid on his own jaw. Captain Gardenley shot him.”

She turns and leaves. After a moment Harcourt rises and follows her.

* * *

 

White blisters line Temeraire's tongue. Keynes makes a low sound, unhappy, and steps around the dragon's mouth with lantern in hand. Temeraire's jaw quivers with a familiar strain. With the doctor between his teeth he makes a valiant effort to refrain from coughing.

Keynes steps outside and Temeraire succumbs miserably, twisting his head aside and choking. The earth shudders as he gasps against the ground, trying desperately to hold back echoes of the Divine Wind to save his ravaged throat. “Well, it is not good,” Keynes tells Laurence.

“Do you have any ideas, Doctor,” prompts Lieutenant Evans after a moment. Granby is absent. Laurence leans against Temeraire's side while the dragon wheezes miserably.

He looks around for Roland but finds her missing – with Excidium, probably – and calls for Dyer to fetch some water.

“No more than any other doctor in the Corps, Mr. Evans,” Keynes says irritably. “A dissection, that is what we need, or a proper study – hopefully of course the Longwing death was a fluke. _Most_ of the dragons will not go coughing up acid, after all. Although I cannot say the war will go particularly well, mind, if we lose all our acid-spitters in one swoop.”

Temeraire makes a noise of protest. “We will not lose Lily,” he says. “Or anyone else. I feel much better, I am sure. I could perhaps eat a few rabbits,” he tells Laurence. “A small deer, even.”

This information is more dismaying rather than the opposite. “My dear, you once could have eaten two cows a day, and been happy about it.”

“And you would have called me fat,” Temeraire protests. His head rests against the ground. “And really I _am_ quite well – not at all like Maximus or some of the others.” His tail twitches.

“Maximus will be perfectly well,” Laurence lies.

Keynes is not so kind. “Checked this morning – he's lost another ton,” he says. “Breathing worse, too. Damn Regal Coppers can't get enough to eat on a regular day, and now with this – we've bred them too large,” he informs no one in particular.

Temeraire raises his head anxiously.

“But Maximus is young,” Laurence repeats. “And will be fine.”

He gives Keynes a quelling look that dares him to contradict this assertion. The doctor only frowns.

“I have other places to be, captain,” he says. “If you don't need me here. Try not to fly outside patrols – and for god's sake keep eating,” he tells Temeraire.

* * *

 

 

 

> Come, come, my dear Laurence! Are you sulking? Your letters have dwindled to nothing; do not be petty. I think less of you. Reply to me at once and tell me what becomes of your sad nation. I have been corresponding with Minister Grenville of late and he spurns all my offers of peace, like a barbarian.
> 
> We always have much to celebrate in France. Negotiations with the German countries proceeds well. It saddens me to see so much of Europe separated and torn, but I feel that this state is changing. France has been making friends and treaties and I am glad, always, for cooperation instead of enmity...
> 
>  

Laurence stares hard at the parchment; it crumples in his fist. He has read it only for the distraction, but despite the blatant provocation he now faces an obligation to report the letter's – likely false – information. He looks up to Temeraire, then averts his gaze.

“Mr. Evans,” he calls softly.

Temeraire snorts in his sleep, twitching uneasily. The second lieutenant is at his side immediately. Indeed he has scarcely left in recent days. “Would you stay with Temeraire,” Laurence asks, feeling regretful, “for just a moment - “

“Of course I will,” Evans says. “Will you get some proper sleep, at last?”

“I need to see the admiral; I will not be long.” He pretends not to see the lieutenant's disappointment as he rises.

He goes to Obversaria's clearing.

The Anglewing is in much the same state as every other dragon in the covert, but with a practiced eye Laurence notes her pallor, her shallow breathing. This quick breed of mid-weights have been hit especially hard and no one knows why; perhaps a quirk of their odd lung conformations, the doctors have said. Whatever the case Obversaria wheezes like a punched bagpipe with every breath. Laurence approaches slowly as he looks around.

It takes a moment to spot Lenton. The man doesn't appear like much of an Admiral, huddled small close to his dragon's massive, drooling jaw. Laurence shoos away a few midwingmen and steps up to touch his shoulder. “Sir, I am sorry to interrupt - “

Lenton snatches the letter from his hands.

A moment later he sighs. It is not a happy sound. “He lies like a bulletin,” Lenton says. “Gods. I do not care. Do what you want with the letters, all of them, I do not care, the Office does not care. I trust to your discretion. Leave me be, Captain.”

Obversaria releases a low whine and hitches her breath. Lenton turns to her at once.

Laurence leaves them alone.

* * *

 

Laurence pens a short, perfunctory reply to Napoleon in Temeraire's clearing under the light of a lantern. He barely knows what he writes. He sends it off with Roland – the courier in Dover will know where to take his letters by now - and the matter is done.

Napoleon's hints wouldn't be useful anyway.

Granby appears prior to the next patrol, frazzled and a bit abashed. “I was with Augustine – he is anxious for poor Immortalis,” the last part of which helps Laurence determine that he refers to Captain Little.

He is more concerned with Temeraire than the actions of an errant lieutenant, but the Celestial states that he is perfectly well. Or, at least better than any of the others. When Dyer reports that there is a problem – that one of the dragons is having a difficulty – Temeraire demands, “Is it Lily? Oh, it must be hard, but surely it is a good thing Lily is flying,” he confides to Laurence in an attempt at a low voice. “She can sneeze all she likes in the air without hurting anyone.”

“So long as she reaches the sea first,” Laurence agrees. He has heard her crew discussing how they will get the Longwing into harness today. If she releases any acid before the formation gets above the water everyone will be in danger. “But it is vital that we are able to confuse the French with another appearance.”

“So everyone says,” Temeraire sighs.

“It is not Lily,” Dyer says. “Maximus cannot get up. He cannot breathe properly – he is coughing everywhere.”

Temeraire stands up. “Laurence, we must help him!”

When his crew has clambered aboard he rattles the harness with one rapid movement and launches into the air. Laurence cannot help but notice that Temeraire's wings tremble with the effort of ascent, that he stumbles when he lands hard on the sodden grass of the Regal Copper's territory.

“Oh, do you need help?” Temeraire asks anxiously. “Or perhaps you should rest, Maximus - “

“I am fine,” Maximus grunts. His wings are flapping ridiculously despite the protests of his crew. They are all aboard his back, though Berkley is telling Maximus to 'Stop moving, you great idiot!'. “You see, if I only - “

Maximus jumps forward and heaves his wings with tremendous exertion. Then, with a great gasp, he crumples again and coughs desperately against the ground.

As Temeraire frets Laurence gets down and goes to scale the Regal Copper. Berkley is slumped against the dragon's neck, patting him frantically and somewhat uselessly. “Dammit all,” he says when he sees Laurence. “It's those air-sacs, Laurence, he's too damn fat to get in the air if they're not working, and if he can't fly - “ Berkley is shaking.

“Perhaps he will breathe better tomorrow,” is all Laurence can think to say.

Berkley laughs harshly. “Or maybe he'll lose another ton or two,” he says, which honestly sounds more likely.

* * *

 

“Letter for you, Sir.”

“Again?” Laurence asks wearily, accepting the parchment. The note is short this time, at least:

 

 

 

> My dearest Laurence!
> 
> Did those admirals of the Aerial Corps tie a quill around your hand? Your last words were as bland and dead as the ocean, good Captain...
> 
>  

Laurence pauses to look up when Temeraire coughs. An abrupt fission of fury races through him; reaching down Laurence tears the letter to pieces and opens his hand. Bits of parchment fall and scatter to the wind.

“Laurence,” Temeraire sighs.

“I am here, my dear. I am right here.”

* * *

 

February fades into March, March into the first blossoms of April. The warmth seems to revitalize the dragons, but not much. Maximus can indeed fly again – most days – but the ascent is always an issue.

Temeraire coughs small and miserably in his clearing every day. The trees have all died, and the dirt is loose and crumbling from the tattered effects of the Divine Wind.

“In a castle of Westphalia, belonging to the Baron of Thunder-ten-Tronckh, lived a youth, whom nature had endowed with the most gentle manners...” Laurence pauses to squint at the small red book he holds. The next part of the translation looks a bit odd, but it hadn't quite felt right to procure any stories written in French. He glances up, though, and sighing sets down the book next to a few more texts. Temeraire is visibly drooping.

After a moment the dragon seems to realize he has stopped talking. “Oh, Laurence – pray continue; I am sure I will pay attention in just a moment.”

“I will read whenever you like, my dear, but I know that you will be sorry to miss any part of a book for your exhaustion.”

“Yes, but I am always exhausted,” Temeraire shifts uncomfortably against the ground. “I hope you will not be too sorry, Laurence, if something should happen. I mean that perhaps you could join the navy again, or marry that woman, Lady Galman. That would you happy, would it not?”

Laurence presses a hand against Temeraire and sits silently for a moment. “No,” he says at last, utterly unable to lie. “I would not be happy, Temeraire. Not in the least.”

“But Laurence...”

“Here is Keynes. It is time for another check, I think.”

If possible Temeraire deflates even further.

The surgeon has been mostly absent from their crew. All surgeons are direly needed now and spend their time servicing the covert as a whole, not individual dragons. Keynes accompanies them on patrols but rarely stays nearby at the covert itself. He clambers over Temeraire without any hesitation, though, poking at dry scales and peering at ragged talons.

At last the surgeon climbs to the ground. He stands between captain and dragon with a faint frown.

“We have better information now – better than before,” he begins. “I believe we can estimate, to some extent, the course of the disease. Certainly it is very clear that Temeraire is afflicted with the same problem affecting most English dragons.”

Laurence waits.

“I understand his condition may appear severe – it is severe,” Keynes says. “But the young dragons linger, Captain Laurence, so it seems. Temeraire may yet live a dozen years at this health.”

“So you assume,” says Laurence blankly. There is yet no way of knowing; and in the normal course of things Temeraire would outlive him by generations of human lives.

Temeraire blinks blearily and sniffs.

“...No,” Keynes says. “But we have studied the disease, and - “

“And until you have cured it, I am uninterested in suppositions,” says Laurence a bit curtly. He regrets the words at once, but only says, “Please, leave us.”

Keynes pauses, inclines his head, and retreats from the clearing.

“That was not kind,” Temeraire says tiredly.

“He was quite wrong, my dear. You shall live for much longer for that. In the space of twelve years a cure will be found – a cure must be found.”

“Perhaps the war will be over, at least,” Temeraire sighs. “I will be glad when we stop these patrols, Laurence. I am just so tired...”

* * *

 

“Sir,” Emily Roland says. “A letter, and a package from Napoleon.”

Laurence waves her away. But Temeraire, by his side, lifts his head from the ground. “A package?” he murmurs. “Oh, the emperor sends such lovely things, Laurence, let us see.”

Laurence grasps at the offering with desperation. “My dear, perhaps you would like to hear the last letters as well? There are others - “

“Oh, that would be nice.“

So Roland runs to fetch the bundle of letters gathering dust in his room.

When she returns Temeraire says, “There are so many!”

Five, to be precise, aside from the one Laurence is now holding. He picks them up wincingly. It's something of a surprise that they have continued to come.

He picks up the first and reads it aloud.

It is another appeal to write, rather more scathing than the one Laurence remembers, which Temeraire does not like. It does, however, have the gratifying benefit of rousing the dragon's indignation. “Oh! 'If my soldiers have frightened you to silence', he says – as though we would ever be frightened of those silly French soldiers - “ Temeraire's hacking cough rather takes away the effect of his words, but Laurence has not seen him so energized in days. “The next one, Laurence, please.”

He hastens to comply.

The next three letters are much the same, and more and more time elapses between the dates of their sending. The last of the unread letters, though, is queerly short. It was sent only four days after the prior letter and says this:

 

 

 

> My dearest William,
> 
> Now I know everything! And my harshness has been unjust.
> 
> I wish you the very best despite the war between us, always.
> 
> -N.

 

Laurence sets the letter down and frowns.

“ - Well, that is rather nicer,” says Temeraire uncertainly. “Is it not?”

“Perhaps the letter from today, now, will make it clear,” Laurence says. Temeraire agrees.

 

 

 

> Dearest William,
> 
> Everything proceeds well in France. Josephine has been making renovations to the palace and you would not believe the Fuss. Tell Temeraire that we are changing the city of Paris. Dragons will soon feel as welcome here as in the finest cities of China. I would have this place be the world's capital for both men and dragons.
> 
> You know of course that special expeditions in the arts and sciences have always been an interest of mine. The Insitut de France has charted several investigations of late into Draconic Matters, and I am sure these topics would interest you greatly; envoys have gone as far as China, Japan, Iraq, the Americas, and even the far African nations like good Egypt. (Though I cannot remember their dragons fondly!)
> 
> I shall tell you if these travels have any worthy results.
> 
> In the meantime I do wish you would write, dear Laurence! France flourishes as always but good company is priceless. I would value your letters. But I Understand that you are occupied.
> 
> Give my every Best regard to your companion.
> 
> -N.

 

For once Laurence does not hesitate to open the box – indeed he practically tears it open, hoping perhaps that the contents will dispel the shreds of fear beginning to scrape at his chest. But the gift reveals nothing. Laurence finds a small pendant inside – fit for a human to wear, this time, not a dragon. He cannot for the life of him recognize what the strange symbol at the end is supposed to represent.

“Laurence?” Temeraire asks, seeing his alarm. “Do you think - “

“...Surely he knows nothing,” Laurence says at last. “Napoleon has long been interested in dragons. Indeed it would be strange for him to hint at his knowledge to us if he _had_ discovered some whisper of the illness.” But he turns over the strange little pendant uncertainly, a bulbous red eye that glints at him knowingly.

“Still,” Laurence adds, “Perhaps it is worth going to Jane - “

Emily Roland rushes up at just that moment. “Sir!” she bursts. “Oh, come please – Maximus is dying.”

* * *

 

Maximus' own surgeon pounds the Regal Copper's huge belly with a hammer and listens to the echoes. Assisting him, Keynes _tsks._ “Nasty business. What a thing to kill a dragon.”

Temeraire makes a wounded sound. “You will not die, Maximus, will you?” But Maximus does not answer.

“Of course he won't,” Berkley snarls. His red face is twisted and he won't look at them. Turning toward Maximus, he adds, “the great idiot ate too much, is all, he just - “ breaking off, he stumbles toward Maximus and grips the dragon around one dangerous talon.

Maximus himself can make no contribution whatsoever to their debates. He lies inert on one side, his belly heaving like bellows, eyes rolled until the bloodshot sclera have blotted away his pupils. The white-dotted tongue sags from his mouth and hangs in the air.

“Poor devil,” Evans says.

“Where the hell is John?” Laurence replies. “Get Temeraire away from here, if you would - “

“I will not, I will certainly not leave my friend,” Temeraire protests. “And Lily would not let Maximus die alone either.”

Nearby Berkley lets out a low moan.

Laurence starts forward. Stops. There is nothing he can do in this situation but stand as Berkley says, “You aren't _allowed_ to die, you idiot lizard – you said you'd die killing Frenchmen. Maybe up against that big firebreather, the one I know you like – what a wretched - “ Berkley descends into an incomprehensible string of curses.

Finally Maximus opens one eye. “You are more preoccupied with Accendare than I,” he mutters. Then, very suddenly, his neck jolts up and he coughs horribly, long and harsh. Berkley pounds his scaled side frantically. His eyes are red-rimmed and Laurence looks away.

Suddenly Maximus chokes and jerks forward. Harsh rattles thunder from his throat. Next descends a wet rasp like sails unfolding in a storm, and then with another great snort Maximus vomits half a cow square in the middle of the clearing.

There is a brief silence. The Regal Copper falls over. “I feel much better,” he sighs, clearing his throat with a small sniffle.

Berkley buries his face in his hands and laughs until he cries.

* * *

 

“You are a year old,” Laurence says one day.

Temeraire looks at him in blank confusion. Laurence says, “I beg your pardon – I do not – it just occurred to me - “ and he falls silent.

The covert is quiet today, the clearing empty. Laurence smooths down his cravat and pauses, blinking rapidly, at the realization that his coat is crumpled and worn. He has been wearing the same one for two days. “They say the young dragons are faring best,” Laurence adds. It is not quite true; the dragons of middle-age are healthiest.

Temeraire only sighs. He does not reply.

Laurence waits. After a moment he says, “I had thought to send along a reply to Napoleon today – would that interest you?”

“Certainly,” says Temeraire wearily. He closes his eyes but shifts his head along the ground to turn toward Laurence, who exhales slowly.

_Addressing Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Defender of the Rhine..._

Laurence pauses. He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his wrists out in an effort to steady his hands. He writes down... He does not know what he writes down. He has no passion for the words, no heart for intrigue and careful insinuations.

 _“You speak of the arts and distant places and my mind has no room to marvel,”_ he says, thoughtless words scattered among the blurred paragraphs. _“It is no reflection on you to say, I cannot care; I care for nothing.”_ And at the end he can only admit, with a sort of frank sincerity that is perhaps too revealing:

 

 

 

> But amongst everything your letters have been a dear good comfort to Temeraire: and to myself also, as much as anything can be.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> William Laurence
> 
>  

Laurence considers tearing the letter to pieces.

But he folds it, instead, and leaves it on the ground by his boots. He leans back against Temeraire. The dragon's wheezy breathing has settled into the uneasy rhythm of repose, so without guilt Laurence closes his eyes.

“He's just sleeping, Temeraire,” says a voice frantically.

“He is not! I _heard_ what you said to Keynes, and you have been shaking him for minutes, did someone hurt him? Was he _stabbed?”_

“No one stabbed anyone!”

Laurence blinks slowly. He's half-braced against – someone, and finally registering the situation jerks forward. “Temeraire? Has something - “

“Oh, thank Christ - don't hurt yourself,” Granby says.

“I am not hurt,” Laurence protests, and stumbling rises to his feet – or tries to; he nearly falls in the attempt, earth shifting under him.

“Have you been sleeping at all?” Granby demands. “Eating? Do not answer that. Get inside – the officers will stay with Temeraire.”

Laurence would like to protest, but Temeraire voices his own wheezing pleas - “Yes, do go, Laurence,” - with distress so evident that he must relent.

The dining hall is near empty when he stumbles inside. Granby vanishes and moments later a small swarm of servants descend:

“Captain, how _good_ to see you - “

“Captain, try some of the stew - “

“Captain! Pleasant day, innit, and how is Temeraire - “

Someone kicks this last man in the leg. Laurence says nothing and after a moment the group drops away to hover anxiously at the end of the room.

There is not a single man above of the rank of midwingman inside – not, at least, until Granby returns with Sutton and Warren stumbling behind.

“Hell, Laurence,” Sutton mutters as he collapses into a chair. The servants descend again in a maddened frenzy while Warren winces with alarm. “John knows some dirty tricks, he does; told Messoria I'd catch ill and die if I should stay out a minute longer.” He pauses after a spoonful of stew, and admits, “Although, I'd forgotten what good food tastes like.”

A nearby servant shoves some bread onto his plate. “You do not have to throw it at me, Jameson!” Warren protests.

Jameson just sniffs dubiously.

“Will dear,” says Harcourt, appearing suddenly next to Laurence. “I am afraid I need to do away with your First Lieutenant; I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“You will not get the chance,” says Berkley, dropping next to her, “If I get at him first – the devil, Laurence, he has some nerve.”

“Oh, if he had not pulled us away our own officers would have done it soon enough,” Sutton concedes grudgingly. “Of course I cannot condone the interference! But under the circumstances...”

Laurence lets the conversation drift overhead for awhile, eating mechanically as Chenery joins the group. He raises his head when Harcourt asks, “And how is Dulcia, Captain?”

“Better than she was, worse than she could be,” says Chenery wearily. Laurence remembers Chenery as a cheerful man – young even for a captain among the aviators, and full of an enthusiasm that lets him be forgiven a great many things. Now, face drawn, he prods at his plate without a smile. “She sleeps, mostly – that is better than most. Though the cough troubles her. I'll be glad if she gets through a night without waking. But she can still patrol of course,” he adds bravely. “She is so glad for that.”

None of them say the words – that though she might patrol now there is little hope she will not decline.

Granby enters, last, with Captain Little. Both their eyes are a bit red when they sit. No one comments. Little leans over the table, head sinking, and tugs dazedly at his slipshod cravat. His fingers fumble for the knot; Granby, leaning over, re-ties it wordlessly and then keeps a hand on Little's shoulder as the Captain reaches for a plate.

Laurence thinks he might understand why Granby has been so hard to find lately.

The thought flits across his mind, hangs, and vanishes. “I wonder where I will go, after,” Harcourt says softly.

Everyone averts their eyes. It is a subject no one wants to address; already corpsmen are floundering without dragons in harness, but the women have it worse. Harcourt could take another egg, perhaps. But not if all the dragons are gone, and for her, especially, there would be no chance of good work outside the Corps – no chance of marriage, either, at least in respectable society.

Useless platitudes come to mind. But Laurence is saved the need to voice them when the door opens, again, and the servants – ecstatic with their good fortune in attracting so many captains at once – turn toward the door.

The room falls quiet.

Midwingmen whisper as the newcomer strides straight for their table.

“Sorry to interrupt. Repugnatis is dead,” Captain Roland says to no one in particular. She sweeps her gaze around the group, lingering on Laurence. “Minacitas. And,” she pauses in her listing, “ - Obversaria.”

The silence seems even more pronounced than before. Laurence closes his eyes. Roland keeps talking; since the first death this sad tradition has fallen to her somehow. “I will be going to London to speak with the Lords on Admiral Lenton's behalf in this – time. I need to tell the other captains about the deaths. Sutton, I'm damned sorry to ask - would you monitor the news while I'm gone?”

The incoming deaths, she means. Sutton agrees. Laurence sips his drink, grimly, and can only be glad he was not asked to take the job.

* * *

 

Laurence only means to sleep a few hours before returning to Temeraire. When he wakes, though, the sun is sunk low in the sky again, and he is stunned to think it may well be the afternoon of the next day. He grabs a few books, parchment, a quill and ink before rushing back to Temeraire's clearing.

Temeraire is sleeping, of course, and Lieutenant Evans takes one look at him and says, “I wish you would rest longer, Sir, we do quite well here - “

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” says Laurence curtly. The lieutenant has the grace to look away as Laurence takes his usual post by Temeraire's leg.

Except the lieutenant does not leave. “Beg your pardon, Sir,” he says after a moment. Miserably, the man hands over a letter. “Captain – that is, _Admiral_ Roland has new orders for you – “

Laurence accepts the message, and the news, with only a slow nod. Evans beats a quick retreat.

The orders tell him this; Lily's formation, being more fit than most, will be needed on more patrols. Maximus is exempt from half the flights. The rest of the formation will be on double-duty. Temeraire, who so alarms the French since Dover, is expected to appear over the sea whenever he is able.

 _Whenever he is able –_ Laurence looks at Temeraire, aghast, as the dragon grumbles in his sleep.

But he cannot argue. Many of the dragons are in worse straits. He drops the orders against the ground and, determined to find a distraction, turns to more personal missives.

He writes a quick letter to his mother – an apology, mostly, for his lack of communication over these past months. It is nothing to which she is not accustomed, after his years at sea, but with the secrecy around the plague he can offer no explanations now. Letters to old crewmates follow. Riley is has asked after Temeraire, as a politeness, and he lingers for a while determining what to say. _Temeraire remembers you fondly, and is glad to see his second summer,_ is what he puts at last.

Collecting these letters together, he remembers his discarded message to Napoleon and resolves to toss it away entirely. But, though he scours the ground, the letter seems to be gone.

Temeraire wakes while he is searching.

“Is this a game?” the dragon murmurs sleepily. Laurence peers around the dragon's claws, ducking around his curled forehand. “ - If you need me to move, Laurence, you may say so...”

“No, my dear, you are well,” Laurence hastens to assure. Sighing, he gives up the matter and moves to put away his packs of parchment. He wonders briefly if there is anyone else to whom he should write; but of course, there is no one. He has his family but few people who sincerely note his presence these days, at least outside the Corps. And no one here, knowing his troubles, will be asking after his health and happiness.

He thinks absurdly of Edith – Edith, now planning a marriage with Richard Woolvey. But Laurence lost any claim to her partnership months ago when he chose Temeraire instead.

Laurence would like to regret that choice. He finds, with slight, bitter surprise, that he cannot.

“I suppose we are patrolling again tomorrow,” Temeraire sighs. “Oh, everything is so very dull, Laurence. It is not that I mean to complain...”

“But of course you will complain anyway,” says Laurence without censure. He looks around and notes that, as has become usual, Lieutenant Granby is absent from the clearing. At least now Laurence thinks he may know why. Immortalis, forty years old, is in worse condition than Temeraire and Laurence cannot begrudge Captain Little any solace. But even the casual ranks of the Corps are not entirely blind to propriety, nor to law. For John to so easily risk his life...

He finds that he is laughing quietly.

“Is something wrong?” Temeraire asks, rousing himself at Laurence's evident distress.

“My dear,” Laurence says, “Has there not been enough death? The war, and now this disease – I wonder at all the ways there are to die.”

Temeraire pauses. “That does not seem very funny,” he observes.

“No, not at all,” Laurence agrees. He looks out, toward the sea, toward the unknown and the possibility of enemy action and a swift end. “Do you perhaps have the strength for a flight today?”

Temeraire hesitates. “Yes,” he decides. “Yes, I do.”

They go up alone. Alone, without any crew, without any other dragons trailing beside their wings. Temeraire skims low in the sky and sighs even as his wings stretch, his movements slow and sweet. Every sight in the air is familiar, every landmark remembered. Their skies thus far have been limited entirely to the borders of England and to the seas she defends. Laurence wonders for the first time if dragons _are_ treated the same in every country – if in China, where Celestials are revered, Temeraire might not have been both happier and healthy. He has never seen that place. But he thinks back to Napoleon's letter of France, where laws are said to be crumbling the old boundaries between dragon and man.

He thinks Temeraire would like to die in a place like that.

* * *

 

A tiny Winchester flutters overhead, his whole spine bobbing in time with a terrible sneeze. The courier spins confusedly for a moment before swinging into a nearby clearing and dropping onto the back of a miserable Yellow Reaper.

Laurence keeps his head down and tries not to watch the people he passes – stumbling, harried, thin not from deprivation but simple strain. Excidium is housed with the rest of the Longwings now, each one cramped and huddled wing-to-wing in the sand-pits that help collect their poisonous acid, and Laurence pauses for a moment to watch them.

Lily's youth is no longer apparent among the group of pale, pastel dragons. Her yellow and purple wings drag along the ground, neck bent stiffly over a tub of sand while she coughs. Excidium, across from her, is in an identical position. His greater girth makes the posture seems especially horrible. Two tiny figures stand by his head, apparently ignoring the danger implicit in his wracking coughs.

Laurence walks closer.

“ - and I am sure it is warm there,” says Emily Roland, doing a valiant job at ignoring Excidium's condition. “The fighting will make you feel better, I am sure - “

“Those French cowards run as soon as they see your wings,” Admiral Roland agrees without smiling. The words seem to be for Emily's benefit; Excidium shudders and nearly wrenches into the tub.

“Laurence,” the Admiral turns suddenly. “Did you need something?”

Laurence eyes the flag-dragon with a wary eye. “Orders have come for you – I offered to bring the news – I am sorry, Jane. Admiral,” he adds, awkwardly. She waves him on impatiently. “They want you in London for a meeting. Two weeks.”

“The devil they do,” she says. “Hang them all – sitting in an office so some navy fools who have never seen a Grey Copper can tell me the dragons are scaring livestock – I won't do it.”

Laurence clears his throat. “There will be a vote,” he says. “On the sickness.”

Admiral Roland falls silent.

“What kind of vote?” Emily asks.

“I was not informed.”

“I can imagine,” says the admiral lowly. She turns to Excidium with a look so despairing that Laurence must face away. “...Laurence, I imagine you can spare my Emily a few days?”

“Of course,” he responds automatically.

Emily bites her lip.

“I suppose I am going to London,” says Roland bitterly. “ - For all the good it may do us.”

* * *

 

“Laurence! Will Laurence, you look terrible!”

The shout takes a moment to register, and then Laurence stops abruptly in the middle of the street. He turns, nearly hits his head on a pole, and finally sees the speaker. “Captain Kerry,” he recognizes. Then, with a bit more surprise: “Captain Anson.”

Anson smacks Kerry on the arm. The younger captain seems only a little chagrined. “Whatever are you doing at port?” asks the younger navy-captain. Without waiting for reply, he adds, “There are several of us down at the White Swan. Our ships and the _Flying Grace_ had some action near Ostend, and... you really do look terrible, Will.”

Anson sighs.

“Did you take damage?” Laurence asks, registering the important news.

“Oh, of course. The _Grace_ more than us – she's only a fourth-rate. And they had four dragons that came before we could blink... I haven't seen many of our dragons lately, you know. I've heard rumors you're all up in Austria, but...”

Laurence hesitates.

“Tell me there is a place to hide,” mutters Berkley, appearing suddenly by their sides. Rimmed with red, his eyes dart quickly around the street. “Cordell keeps plying me with beer as though I am an addled fool - “ he zeroes in on Laurence. “How did you escape Granby?” he demands.

Anson and Kerry eye Berkley – and his captain's pins – with some alarm.

“I left him with Little,” Laurence says.

Berkley curses at him. “I am going back to the covert,” he says.

“They will not allow us to return.”

“I will sneak in. Or they may shoot me – I would like to see them stop me. What a fool notion, sending us out like children, _for our health._ And all the while Maximus - “

Berkley stops. His voice breaks, shuddering. Laurence politely turns his face away.

Anson gawks. “Laurence,” he begins.

“Excuse me,” Berkley coughs. “I must – Laurence.” He nods jerkily and leaves.

“What,” Captain Anson asks slowly, “Is happening at that covert, Laurence?”

“And why haven't we seen any captains patrolling?” asks Kerry quietly. He looks at Laurence carefully. “Are they doing something - “

“Forgive me,” Laurence says, throat tight. He has just spotted a flash of a green coat through Dover's busy streets. “But I think I will return as well. I am glad,” he adds, with perhaps too much sincerity, “To see you both in good health.”

He ducks through the crowd and at once disappears.

* * *

 

Temeraire lets his mouth hang open. Dyer pours another bucket of water, pitiably small, over his head. Splatters drip down the dry ruff, run over his snout, trickle over his teeth and bumpy tongue. Laurence leans a hand against Temeraire's side and tries to remember a time when the dragon's dark hide gleamed oily and sleek, soft instead of flaky. Dry heat throbs under his hands.

“I am sorry, dear,” says Laurence. He means it. “We must start the harness.”

Temeraire closes his eyes. Nods.

The flight is a failure from the start.

Maximus has remained behind – again – and Lily, leading the formation, weaves in and out of position. The others follow like a drunken flock of birds until Messoria, with a sneeze, tumbles into Immortalis and sends them both spinning.

Laurence dearly hopes that no one is watching this.

The whole group has to fly in circles until they can re-form. Temeraire is shivering by the time they rise halfway over the Channel, France easily in sight, and quickly swing Southwest. “Not much longer, dear,” Laurence says. He doesn't much believe it himself, but they only need the appearance of a proper patrol for the French to think the Corps remains strong.

After another few minutes Nitidus is bobbing oddly in the air, and soon Dulcia sighs loudly and flings herself to rest on Lily's back. A set of flags flashes from the front. Laurence doesn't understand the signals at first. Doesn't quite want to understand.

Behind him he hears Granby curse.

“Temeraire,” he says.

“Yes, I see it,” Temeraire says slowly. He keeps flying for a moment. Then, with great effort, he pulls away. Granby tells an ensign to signal their acceptance.

Temeraire, of course, is the greatest deterrent to France since the Battle of Dover. It's practically a boast to have him flying alone; it is also a risk of tremendous proportions, but even more of one to risk the whole formation's health just for show. Temeraire hangs with his head low, even more dispirited alone, and every wingbeat causes his body to tremble.

Suddenly he drops like a stone.

Laurence shouts uselessly, his hand jerking for his sword. “Temeraire!”

They lurch in the air, pulling forward, and Temeraire breaths heavily. “Laurence,” the dragon says. “I believe we will have to go back after all.”

“Yes,” says Laurence. “Yes, dear, I think that is perhaps best.”

“Will,” Granby says.

His tone makes Laurence turn around.

Half a dozen dragons are tearing toward them from the South – two Petit Chevaliers, two Pecheur-Reyes, and two mixed couriers that flicker red and yellow; he can't make them out at a distance. Laurence knows, at once, that there is no hope.

But he says, “Temeraire, you must make for the shore,” and he immediately starts shedding his coat anyway.

Granby stares at him. Laurence considers calling the riflemen to ready themselves and dismisses the thought. They cannot win this fight. “What are you doing?” Granby demands harshly.

“They will use me to hold him,” Laurence says, unclipping his harness with brisk efficiency. He steps toward Temeraire's shoulder.

Granby grabs his shoulder and sends him sprawling. “You have lost your senses!”

“He should have a choice,” Laurence says, refusing to be angry. Incapable. “As long as I am here, John, he will not.”

“He would choose to have you a prisoner rather than dead,” Granby whispers angrily. “You idiot. Now if we are surrendering, give the order so no one needs to die – or if not, tell me you are insane right now so I can do it instead.”

Laurence says nothing. He looks out, again, over the sea.

He gives the order to surrender.

* * *

 

They keep flying for awhile, and for the life of him Laurence could not say where they are. Temeraire's breathing has steadily worsened until every movement is a strain. Their guard looks fantastically alarmed by this point, and one tiny light-weight – recognizably a Garde-de-Lyon, now – keeps edging up and asking anxiously if Temeraire is well.

The answer, of course, is 'no'.

They approach the coast of France and finally land on an empty stretch of shore. Temeraire ignores his guards utterly and nearly collapses to the ground – nearly, yet he still manages to stand, shuddering, and sways glaring at the French long enough for his crew to disperse on the dusty sands. Without prompting Laurence dismounts first, ignoring his crew's protests, and goes to meet the senior officer.

The captain that meets him bears a look of pity. This insult, added to the day's strain, is too much. “Sir,” says Laurence abruptly, “You will do me a kindness by telling me where we go. Is Temeraire meant for the breeding grounds?”

The captain glances at Temeraire doubtfully. Laurence realizes his own folly even as he says the words. Of course not. In fact even this contact has been a danger; Temeraire could easily infect the other dragons, and it must be evident, now, that he is sick.

But, “You are a guest,” the man says instead. And he adds, delicately, “though we must insist that you stay until you speak with the Emperor.”

“You will not kill me,” Laurence says slowly. He knows this with a sudden surety he cannot explain. Even if he should order Temeraire back to England... no, they will not kill him. And so there is little they can do to make him stay.

Except, well. Temeraire wheezes angrily in the distance. A pointed silence stretches.

“No,” the Frenchman admits at last. “ - But we can cure your dragon.”

Laurence freezes.

Temeraire huffs above them and tries with all his might to growl. His limbs tremble with the effort of staying upright. A long gobbet of drool slowly falls to the ground. Laurence watches it. “A cure,” he echoes.

“We have it in Paris,” the man tells him. “You just need to be our guest, and stay peacefully.”

Temeraire opens his mouth and coughs.

“...Yes,” Laurence says. “Yes, very well.”

* * *

 

“This is not how I wanted to meet you.”

Laurence does not look up. Two polished boots come into view attached to brushed white silk stockings. He only twists around to where Temeraire is still trembling on the soft sand beach off Calais, where he at last fell exhaustively and could not rise again.

“He will be fine,” Napoleon Bonaparte continues. “The cure will revive him.”

The 'cure' smells foul. Laurence watches the mixed assembly of servants and soldiers lugging huge, steaming vats in front of Temeraire's blistered jaws. To watch the wretched display is better than looking at this man who should be his enemy. “Or he will die here, on French soil, and never know home again.”

“I will not let that happen.”

Granby and the rest of his crew are standing further down the shore under heavy guard. Laurence does not want to look at them – does not want to imagine what they must be thinking. “How did you know,” he asks. “How did you find this - “

“Your letters made me suspicious,” Napoleon says. “I sent a man to inspect the coverts. It did not take him long to notice the sickness, of course. Testing the cure was more difficult. We had to infect a prisoner, you see, but he was already sentenced to die. If the cure worked, we said, he would be paroled.”

“No dragon deserves that.”

Napoleon only shrugs. “He bought his life; many would be glad for a similar chance. England's dragons can now do the same.”

“You will make them pay for the cure,” Laurence realizes belatedly. He does not truly feel surprised.

Napoleon gestures expansively. “I would like more than anything, dear Laurence, to be charitable. But there is a war. I cannot give my enemies the tools to defeat me and ask for nothing in return.”

Laurence wishes he could call this cruelty, but it is only good sense. One does not give aid to enemies without good cause, and this plague is not the fault of Napoleon.

“And you will demand...?”

“I will ask,” Napoleon emphasizes, “For nothing more than the most reasonable things. Peace, Laurence, always peace!”

Laurence is sure that such terms of peace might include a few land-concessions and the deconstruction of British ports, at best. But the particulars are not his concern. “Then I suppose we must go back to England as soon as possible. If we are to act as messengers, and deliver the proposal for this remedy, we should act swiftly before more dragons die.”

“Of course. But I would ask one thing of you.”

“You have that right,” says Laurence warily.

Stepping closer, Napoleon places a hand around his neck and kisses him. Confident, unyielding – Laurence is too startled to do anything but respond. The Emperor steps back a moment later.

“When this fuss is finished I would have you write again. And one day you will visit Paris; promise me that.”

Laurence swallows around the dryness in his throat. “ - I will write,” he says.

Napoleon drops his hand. “There are not enough mushrooms for all the dragons, I think; but nearly half. And we may grow more. Tell them that.”

* * *

 

“But why does it have to smell,” Granby says.

The lieutenant does not actually seem to care. He is grinning; they are all smiling. Temeraire's recovery is remarkable. After merely three days on French soil he is flying with ease, air whistling through his lungs without a sound or hint of the old malaise. Swaddled like the precious cargo it is, one single mushroom – proof and evidence of his miraculous cure – is strapped to the Celestial's chest for delivery to Admiral Roland. Accompanying it is one note Laurence has _not_ read; he is glad the tricky politics of negotiating for the cure will be quite beyond him.

There is fanfare when they arrive, of course, if a strange and subdued sort. Temeraire cannot resist making a few ecstatic loops over the covert and even the sleepy draconic inhabitants raise their heads to watch him. Finally they release their crew to the ground and look for Roland.

But she is London, still; no, Portsmouth; Gibraltar, one runner volunteers. At last Laurence gives up. The news will wait a single day.

* * *

 

“I am so hungry,” says Temeraire.

The crowd around Temeraire's clearing has grown. The Celestial himself doesn't seem to notice, but the pinched faces of the aviators outside are fierce and intent. “Of course,'' Laurence says, and he thinks of a stinking cut mushroom moldering away with their supplies. But he calls for a cow, instead, and Temeraire swallows it down to the hooves, only choking a little past the healing blisters in his throat.

He breathes so easily.

That evening he is summoned to the admiral's office.

Roland is exceptionally pale, her wildly tossed hair splaying against shining new admiral's bars. “It works then,” she asks abruptly. “The French cure?”

Laurence sits down heavily. “ - I beg your pardon.”

She shoves a letter at him. Laurence recognizes the slanted, sprawling script immediately and translates:

_“...which should prove Efficacious in restoring the health of your creatures. Several necessary terms for this service, which you will agree must be allowed for the benefit of both parties, must first be discussed - “_

“Complete coercion,” Roland fumes. “And of course, of course we must allow it! A cure! Laurence - “ Roland stops. Turns away. “It _works?”_ She insists.

“Yes,” says Laurence hollowly. And then, after a moment: “I did not know – it was a mushroom. Just a mushroom – he sent one. A sample.”

Roland winces. “Then we shall turn it over for study,” she snaps, so that he almost regrets speaking. “I must take this to London. And while I debate with those fools in Parliament you shall have charge of the covert.”

Laurence startles. “Admiral?”

“Everyone else is too damn distracted – or else sick with the grief of it all. You can tear yourself away from Temeraire - rather you must – but it is too damn cruel to ask someone else to do the job.”

Neither of them mention Emily, single and alone by Excidium's side.

Promotion by default, than. Unflattering, but impossible to debate under present circumstances. “Of course,” Laurence says at last, and Roland nods curtly.

She still seems wild-eyed, so he adds, “We shall all be glad when a deal is made, Admiral. Despite the circumstances this can only be a happy occasion.”

Roland looks at him. “I had a meeting in London this past weekend,” she says. “For a vote – would you not like to know what was decided?”

Laurence frowns.

“They want us to kill the old dragons, and the young ones – they want us to get what eggs we can and then kill the rest too. Humanely, they say. Very nice, very neat. Perhaps the cure will save us. Perhaps they will not care for it, if gaining the tactical advantage of an aerial force means we must first capitulate to the French anyway.”

Laurence says nothing.

“Hell,” Roland says. “I know he could not have caused a plague, but somehow I feel as though Napoleon has played us all.”

* * *

 

“You reek,” says Harcourt bluntly, but she's staring at Temeraire.

Laurence does not blame her – he can't stop staring either. The change has been remarkable already. Clear-eyed, breathing easily, Temeraire's skin is still waxen and pale but he shifts around without any difficulty to peer at the smaller captain. “I do not at all understand why everyone says so,” the dragon complains. “I ate the mushroom many days ago, and anyway I thought they smelled quite nice. I am sure Lily would agree, if only she _could_ smell – I do hope she feels well?”

This anxious question seems to jolt Harcourt. “No real change,” she says, automatically, and then wincingly adds, “I am sure she will do better – a cure,” she says to Laurence. “I could not believe it; Berkley would have come at once, except he tripped over a pile of harness buckles trying to run here, and then he fell down weeping. I do not blame him a bit. Half the covert is running mad with rumors.”

“We shall all be glad when a deal is made with France; and I do hope it happens swiftly.” This reminds Laurence: “I beg your pardon, Catherine, but there is something I have forgotten - “

She waves him off, excusing herself to retreat to Lily's clearing. “What have you forgotten?” Temeraire asks.

“I have a letter to write.”

He deliberates over what to say. He suspects that Roland's negotiations continue because the lords' will not meet Napoleon's demands, whatever they are, but he cannot find it in himself to resent the Emperor for exacting a price – not even when the lingering hurts, when whatever lands or treaties being discussed and rejected will buy the lives of all England's dragons. Laurence wishes he could call this cruelty, but it is only good sense, in wartime, to use your advantages.

But he will not thank the man for his stubbornness, either.

At last he writes this:

 

 

 

> My dear Napoleon,
> 
> I am told Negotiations have begun for the procurement of a cure; the aid you delivered to Temeraire was timely, and though it served as an effective Demonstration toward the mysterious mushroom's effects I must question your motivations.
> 
> I expect you will not say where you found this treatment. But I would ask how long you have known about the illness; certainly we thought, or hoped, your forces were quite oblivious.
> 
> Temeraire does very well now and should like you to know that -
> 
>  

“Sir! Admiral Roland has returned!”

Laurence lowers his quill. “The negotiations are finished?” he asks Dyers with some relief. But the runner looks worried.

“She doesn't look too happy, Captain,” the boy presses. He drops his gaze to the letter in Laurence's grip. “Should I take that to Captain James?” Dyers adds.

Laurence pauses a moment. Looks down. “A moment,” he says, and picking up another parchment scrawls a short, quick missive. He hands it over. “For Captain Hollins,” he says, and Dyers rushes away. “Excuse me a moment, Temeraire.”

He finds Admiral Roland outside the sand pits, her boots stomping quick, frustrated circles near the entrance. When she sees Laurence Roland says, “Curse this whole _sodding_ war,” and he is startled to see that her eyes are red and inflamed.

“Is Excidium - “

“Not dead yet,” she says brusquely. “He will be! There is no deal; there will _be_ no deal; the lords have decided to make a new crop of mushroom with that little half-dead thing you turned over to the embassy. If they can figure out how to make it grow, and if they cannot, I suppose they shall hunt down the source themselves - “

Laurence stares. “That will take months,” he says. “Years, perhaps – we do not have the time.” Not when every dragon in England is infected, when every dragon is dying.

“There will be fewer to cure if fewer survive. They said it to my face! The _strongest_ will survive – never mind that Excidium has served this damn traitorous country over a hundred years - “

Laurence searches for some words of consolation. Hollow, meaningless, they turn to ash in his throat.

“I suppose we will kill a few more Frenchmen before he goes, anyway,” Roland says bitterly. “For all the good it shall do any of us.”

* * *

 

Laurence does not return to Temeraire once Roland's news is relayed to him. He can only imagine the dragon's outrage, his grief, and does not know how he would calm him. Does not know if he should; on the short walk to his quarters he passes a crying Greyling, two years old, whistling like a teacup through some blockage in his throat. Laurence wonders if any of the lofty men who voted on this decision have ever stepped foot in a covert, and doubts it extremely.

Today should be a day of celebration. Instead he sits quietly in his room, the candles unlit, and looks outside. In a day or two this news will spread throughout the coverts. The captains are already devastated, already grieving. The lords may imagine that a few surviving eggs in Loch Laggan will see them through the war, but this is the end of Britain's Aerial Corps.

It does not have to be the end of her dragons.

Slowly, with a fear that seems unsuited to the act, he opens the trunk that is a relic of previous service; unsuitable entirely for flights, but useful on base, and useful for storing items like this, which in most situations would not see the light of day. A thing bought and kept for reasons he cannot even explain to himself.

Laurence dons the coat. Splendid green silk, diamond -cuffed, ridiculously soft even after neglect. He walks away with purpose.

He finds Berkley first. Maximus is sleeping, but Berkley has evidently heard the news. He kneels beside the hulking dragon and strokes flaking orange scales like he might somehow lift away part of the illness. “Do you think they will want us in the army,” he asks Laurence heavily. With a tinge of anger, despite his sorrow. Berkley stares at the sleeping Regal Copper, his face streaked with tears and his eyes red and wild. “Do you think they will expect us to serve after this?” He doesn't even look at Laurence.

“Many things are expected which will not, I think, come to pass.”

“It's not damn fair – not like this. There's a _cure_ and they just - “ Berkley turns long enough to see Laurence. He pauses. Frowns.

“It is not fair,” Laurence agrees quietly. “And you are quite correct. I do not understand how the lords, the admirals, how anyone can expect men to be loyal under such circumstances. Not when Bonaparte openly offers a cure – and such greater kindnesses to the dragons in his service.”

Berkley doesn't move.

“No one would think less of you for anything, I think, under these circumstances,” Laurence says

“Bonaparte gave you that coat,” says Berkley, tired and slow. “ - Laurence.”

“Temeraire is well, and we will fight tomorrow,” Laurence says. “I hope dearly and sincerely that the rest of you might find rest. I do not suppose there is a watch tonight; there has been none for a week. Good-night, Berkley.”

* * *

 

Berkley and Maximus are gone the next day.

Captain Chenery is also nowhere to be found; Dulcia's usual spot is bare and empty, and the little flock of light-weights she usually accompanies around the covert are oddly silent about her absence. And that of Captain Rendon and the Bright Copper Isia, who Laurence has never even met.

“If it was just Chenery gone I would have thought he'd just gone off for a lark – give Dulcia a few good last days,” Granby says frankly at midday. No leads can be found and already energy toward the search is failing throughout the covert. No one can spare much care for three more dying dragons, mysterious as their circumstances are. “I don't suppose you have any ideas, Laurence?”

He pointedly stares at Laurence's face.

“They gave no word to me of their intentions,” he says.

Temeraire takes the news with more worry.

“Oh, I do hope they are well! Maximus has been so ill – what if they flew too far and could not return? What if they flew away and _died?”_ He pauses, clearly stricken at the thought. “We must find them, Laurence!”

“I find it highly unlikely that three competent men would come to tragedy in the same night,” Laurence provides.

“I find it unlikely that three men and three dragons would disappear in one night,” Temeraire rebukes, lowering his head to eye Laurence as though _he_ is being ridiculous. “And yet clearly they have.”

“Perhaps this last night's news distressed them,” Laurence suggests.

“Oh! And it should have! I cannot believe it, Laurence – I will go and tell Parliament _myself_ what I think of this decision! And Napoleon has been so very reasonable, too. You know I cannot really think of anything he has done wrong; he has been only good to us. He offered the cure, and was so kind in those letters – and look, you look so excellent in that coat, which I am glad you have finally started to wear.”

“It only seemed appropriate,” Laurence says. “But I pray that you do not go to Parliament yet, Temeraire; I assure you it will do not good, and perhaps another answer may yet present itself.”

“I fail to see how, and meanwhile dragons will die as we wait,” Temeraire protests.

“The situation may not be so perilous as it appears.” After a pause, Laurence adds, “I know you worry for Maximus; but I am sure he will be quite well.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Temeraire sighs. He slumps down on his forearms with a tremendous concussion of sound.

The next day three Yellow Reapers are missing.

Temeraire patrols for nine hours, and much of that time alone. The act seems something of a farce now that France so clearly knows about the cure – knows more about it, certainly, than Britain herself. As Temeraire wings near Dovert covert Lieutenant Granby appears near the front to speak lowly to Laurence.

“Immortalis can barely fly.”

“Some of the Longwings do quite well still,” Laurence suggests.

Granby is silent so long that Laurence finally turns to face him. “I begin to resent my own country,” says Granby. “That is wrong, I know; but how can anyone consign them to death? To - “

They are coming in above the covert now - the dragons still and unmoving, the aviators walking slowly from place to place. From the sky they have a clear view of oddly-shaped lumps behind the covert proper. Burial mounds. After the first few dragons died and had to be dragged away like meat by their comrades they have simply been flying there to die.

“I understand,” says Laurence.

Immortalis and Little are gone by the next morning. So are Lily, Harcourt, and yet another Yellow Reaper. Granby never reports either, and if no on quite notices Laurence will not be the one to mention it.

All captains are called to the mess for an impromptu meeting.

“I would like to remind you all,” says Roland grimly, “That you have sworn oaths to your country. You owe her your loyalty in all circumstances; through adversity, through war, through sickness and health.” She stresses these last words. “I know, we all know, that these past few months have been damned hard. There is hope. There exists a cure and many of our dragons have years to live. I expect all of you to continue to fight while this war continues, for the good of the nation, and one day we can look to the good of our dragons too. But England must _always_ come first. If you have an issue with that, you can take a trip to Scotland and we'll tell the dragons you had a bad accident; but don't ever forget your duties to King and Country.”

The speech somehow surprises Laurence. The words stab the room spare and blunt. He did not expect such harshness from Roland, and he avoids Temeraire yet again and returns to his quarters.

He understands a little better when the morning comes and five dragons have vanished – Excidium included.

* * *

 

“This place is full of traitors,” says Admiral Holland. “Weak men – soft-hearted fools who will betray the nation for beasts - “

“So you want to promote me,” says Laurence flatly. “Because mine is the only healthy dragon in the covert, so you think I will not flee.”

“ - Well,” says the Admiral awkwardly, who would of course not _phrase_ it in such a way; but the answer is, yes.

There are eleven dragons left in Dover. It makes a pitiable command for any Admiral, and one alarming when considering that this post is the first Aerial Defense between England and France. Now, finally, Parliament seems to have registered the very real vulnerability created in leaving themselves without any dragons whatsoever. Now, of course, it is far too late for anything to be done about the matter.

“...You have had years of experience,” the admiral tries.

“At sea,” Laurence says, purely to see the man sputter. But he has no more patience for excuses. “Very well. I accept the post.”

Those who remain at Dover now include mostly couriers and a few of the the hardier mid-weights. Laurence rather suspects that most captains who remain simply hope that the war will end sooner rather than later – soon enough for their dragons to be saved through peace, and not treason.

But Laurence looks at them with a tactical eye – eleven dragons, sick, and this currently the strongest covert in the country – and he knows what is coming.

They start painting up Yellow Reapers as tiny Parnassians and hope no Frenchman will get close enough to tell the difference. The chill spring is starting to give way to warmer bouts of weather, though these come with fits and starts as though the turning season doesn't know quite how to shift. Laurence is a bit surprised when a small Roi-de-Vitesse is allowed through British lines with a letter one foggy evening. Mostly he is shocked the battery at the shore let her pass. He flies out with Temeraire to meet the courier before she can get too close to the depleted covert.

The little dragon looks appallingly healthy. If not for Temeraire, who gleams black and strong under the overcast afternoon light, Laurence could almost forget what a normal dragon looks like. An ensign swings across to hand over the letter and then the tiny dragon circles around through the air. No sneeze to be heard, no cough, no hesitation in her clean wingstrokes.

“Have you seen any of my friends,” Temeraire asks her.

“I am sure I have,” the little dragon says. “And I am sure they are happy. All the dragons that have joined us are so very happy; you would be too if you came to France!”

Temeraire ducks his head.

The courier spins back toward the shore and is gone. Temeraire returns to the covert, and there they read the letter:

 

 

 

> My dearest Will,
> 
> Perhaps the English are not so irredeemable as I have feared; many of your countrymen have seen sense and acknowledged the better government of France. I only wish you would join them!
> 
> You will be glad to hear all your comrades from the Aerial Corps are doing quite well. Their dragons are improved, though we did lose one, a beast called Morsus who was too ill for saving. Some dragons have joined the Armée de l'Air and we accept their aid happily. This is a good time for us all.
> 
> I hope, dear Will, that you recall my words from weeks and months past: England and France need not be enemies. I mean that most sincerely. It is a sentiment I will pursue by force, if necessary.
> 
> N.
> 
>  

“What does that mean,” Temeraire asks.

Laurence folds the letter and feels only a cold calm descend. He has expected nothing different; there is nothing left in him but exhaustion and a queer acceptance. “Our friends are well,” he says. “You may see them soon. And I will tell the harness-master to prepare us for a battle.”

“But it is so late,” says Temeraire, and moments later an alarm begins to sound.

Only half the covert is roused at first. Laurence sends a runner directing all beasts to rise, then directs two couriers to the nearest coverts. It will do no good, but an attempt must be made. Lieutenant Evans hurries at his heels when he mounts Temeraire. Eleven sickly creatures stagger into the air, and together Laurence and Temeraire watch a dark cloud of dragons approaching steadily from the south.

They see a Longwing, two, three. Native English Bright-Coppers, a Xenica, Greylings. Laurence puts a hand against Temeraire's neck and finds him trembling.

“What do we do?” asks the dragon quietly. “Laurence...”

“We fight until we cannot,” Laurence says, and he signals the rest of the formation onward.

 


End file.
